Speaking in Riddles
by EtheGoldenSnitch
Summary: "Faithful are the wounds of a friend, but the kisses of the enemy are deceitful." Tom Riddle has been shipped off to Hogwarts, and is glad to be rid of Wool's Orphanage. But what about the Squib girl he left behind? Rated T for violence and psychological pain.
1. Prologue

Tom Riddle had always been different.

Everyone at Wool's Orphanage knew it.

Whilst the other children played in the orphanage's courtyard, Tom would sit in his room, all alone. When at school with the other orphans, he would sit in the back row, never answering a question, never asked to read a passage aloud, never bothering to join in with everyone else, simply staring at the teacher until she became so blurred that Tom couldn't see anymore, while he waited for class to be over.

Though quiet – "reserved", the orphanage matron called him – Tom was anything but shy. When provoked or teased, he would get angry – so angry, according to some of the boys, that the environment around him just seemed to darken entirely. Strange things would happen, things that science and nature didn't allow. It was almost as if the universe made an exception for Tom.

The adults thought him to be a fine young man, though. He was devilishly handsome, there was no denying that, with his gleaming dark eyes, always brooding over something from the darker side of his mind, pale skin, the same color as freshly fallen snow, light and almost feminine, and his thick locks of hair, the same dark color of his eyes. Besides his looks, though, Tom was very astute. He received some of the highest marks in school, and had a tendency to use longer words when he spoke. More than once, Tom had called some of his fellow orphan boys "ignorami", only to have them scratching their heads rather dumbfoundedly, wondering what he was getting at.

But, as one orphan girl often wondered, was there more to him than the cold shoulder he often gave the world? Was there a possibility that Tom really was a good person? And if he was, how could she get him to show it?


	2. A Meeting By the Seashore

Elizabeth Warren had known Tom for eleven long years – her whole life at Wool's Orphanage. She had been born in May, and Tom in January.

She had been put in the orphanage when both her parents had perished in a fire, when she was but a little baby. When Elizabeth had found out, she had spent an afternoon to herself, sitting in her room and mourning for the parents she had never known.

Elizabeth had never been an "emotional" girl at all. With her immense hazel eyes, mid-length ginger hair, and many a freckle adorning her face, it seemed as almost nothing could diminish her spirit. Still, hearing of the way her parents had died had come as a serious blow to her. Elizabeth was a well-learned individual, possessing a vocabulary almost as extensive as Tom's, and marks just as high, and thus knew how painful being burnt was.

And to be killed in that manner . . . .

It made Elizabeth feel terrible inside as she imagined her mother and father crying out in pain, perhaps reaching for one another one last time, as they were engulfed in flame.

Still, her grief had not lasted long. A few days after the news of her parents' death was conveyed to her, the orphanage matron, Mrs. Cole had announced that she would be taking the orphans on an outing to the sea, to celebrate summer.

There, in a cave at the seashore, Elizabeth spoke to Tom for the first time.

~0~

"Come on, hurry up now! Don't rush off! Stay together! Behave yourselves!" Were the nagging words that Elizabeth heard from Mrs. Cole as the orphans scattered themselves across the beach.

No one heeded her words. The girls rushed to the water's edge, gathering seashells, careful not to dirty their frocks while the boys were attempting to push one another into the water, each one screaming with laughter.

Elizabeth stayed rooted to her spot, staring at the horizon. It was midday, a little after noon, and the sun was above her. She was barefoot, sand getting into slightly uncomfortable places in between her toes, causing them to turn ice cold in matter of seconds.

But she did not care. It had been two years since she had visited the seashore (each summer outing had been either into the woods, or to the beach), and it hadn't lost its beauty in any form. And, for those brief few moments, the whole memory had been implanted firmly in Elizabeth's mind. She felt as though it would never be possible to forget such an enchanting sight.

Suddenly, Elizabeth felt a blow to her left shoulder, and she was on the ground, sand smeared all over her face. She took a disagreeable moment to wipe the sand from her eyes, and blinked. The first thing she saw as she opened her eyes once again were three children – two boys and one girl – walking together at a brisk pace, chattering amongst themselves, completely oblivious to the fact that they had just pushed someone over.

Part of Elizabeth wanted to shout at the trio, but when she noticed that the infamous Tom Riddle was with them, she did not. Instead, she pulled herself up off of the ground, and followed the three children casually, listening to them talking. Tom never spent time with anyone; this was rare, and, if Elizabeth was honest with herself, suspicious.

"Where are you taking us, Tom?" The girl asked. She was short, and wore her hair in braids. Elizabeth recognized her as Amy Benson.

Tom winced slightly as she said his name, almost as if an itch had arisen on the bottom of his foot, where he could not scratch it. "I would appreciate it if you would refrain from calling me 'Tom'," he said, gritting his teeth ever so slightly, "And you will see, Benson, if only you wait."

The other boy, with wavy brown hair and more than a few pimples on his face, scowled. "Why don't you just call her 'Amy'?"

Tom sighed, rolling his eyes. "Because, Bishop, I believe that calling people by their last names is far more formal. Wouldn't you agree?"

"No, I _wouldn't_. I hate it, Tom. It's very . . . ."

Tom smirked. "Condescending?" He turned his head around, suddenly, before Elizabeth found any time to hide. He simply narrowed his eyes slightly, and looked back to the front, without speaking to her. Elizabeth simply waited for a moment, half expecting Tom to say something to her, but he did not, simply carrying on his conversation with Amy and Dennis. "There's not much need to _talk_ about this, wouldn't you say? We both know who is right. Besides, we're here."

Elizabeth's eyes widened as their destination came into view. Before them, stood a massive cave that had been formed by the ocean, looking almost like a giant mouth with all its stalagmites and stalactites.

"It's scary," Amy shivered. "Look, it's just like a giant mouth."

"It's not a mouth." Tom scowled. "It's just a cave. And there's a reason I brought you here, if you'd like to know."

"Dennis," Amy whispered to the boy, "I'm scared, and it's cold in there."

Dennis frowned. "Don't be stupid. It's just a cave, and it's just as cold as everywhere else." He turned to Tom, puffing his chest out in pride. "I'm going in."

Tom gave a small glimmer of a smile. "Fine, then. Coming, Benson?"

"Yes," Amy squeaked, making sure to stay close to Dennis.

Elizabeth, once she was sure that she was out of sight, crawled in between the stalagmites, and entered the cave after the others. Amy had been right – it _was_ cold, especially cold for Elizabeth, as she wore no shoes.

"Hurry _up!"_ Tom barked from deeper inside the cave. "We're almost here."

Elizabeth quickened her pace as she scrambled over the jagged rocks, trying her best not to injure herself, which was difficult, considering the cave was pitch black, and she could not make a sound, or Tom would know that she was with them.

"What is this?" Elizabeth heard Amy's hushed voice. "Tom, it's so dark in here."

Instantaneously, a high-pitched scream filled the air, followed by a slightly deeper one. They were full of agony and terror, almost making Elizabeth want to throw up.

 _What was happening?_ Abandoning her previous fears of being seen, Elizabeth bounded through the cave to see what was going on.

She stopped, frozen with fear, as the reality of the situation sank in. Amy and Dennis were both on the floors of the cave, screaming to themselves, and clutching at their throats. Tom simply leaned on a stalagmite, with a strange sort of smirk fixed on his face.

"What are you _doing?"_ Elizabeth cried out half angrily, and half more frightened than she had been in her life.

"I might ask you the same question," Tom said, raising an eyebrow. "Why were you following me?"

Elizabeth wanted to hit him. "You imbecile! They're being _tortured,_ for God's sake! _Do_ something!" He gave a slight groan, and looked at Amy and Dennis. Instantly, they stopped screaming; they just lay there, gasping for breath, eyes wide.

Tom laughed quietly to himself. "So, if you don't mind me asking, why did you follow me here?'

Elizabeth, fear turning into anger, took a few steps more, putting less space between her and him. "Why do you care?" Her gaze drifted to Amy and Dennis. "What did you _do_ to them?"

Tom stood, and stooped over the two orphans, feeling their foreheads and cheeks, checking for breathing. "They saw their parents dying," he said quietly.

Elizabeth felt as though she had had the wind knocked out of her. "They . . . . what? How is that possible?"

Tom rolled his eyes, and stood, walking up to her. "How is it _im_ possible?" He asked, his dark eyes flashing.

"What in the name of Mary is going on?!" Another voice – Mrs. Cole's voice sounded through the cave. She had heard Amy and Dennis' screams.

"Hide." Tom growled out of the corner of his mouth. "Or you can end up like Bishop and Benson."

Not before shooting a glare at him, Elizabeth dove behind a large stalagmite, watching the scene. Tom, once again, lay down next to Amy and Dennis, checking for their heartbeats, with the occasional gentle touch to their cold, seemingly lifeless faces.

"Mrs. Cole," Tom gasped out as she neared him, "look! Something's happened to them! I heard them scream, and when I got here, they were just . . . like this!"

Elizabeth was filled with rage. He had tortured them, and now he was lying about it! Somehow, she had expected more from Tom. If anything, wouldn't he take credit for his own work?

"It's quite all right, young man," Mrs. Cole said, trying to calm him down. She looked seriously flustered. "Why don't you go get my bag?"

Tom raised an eyebrow, confused. "Your bag, Mrs. Cole?"

Mrs. Cole heaved a sigh. "My bag of medical supplies? I take it everywhere as a precaution."

"Right," Tom nodded. "And . . . where would that be?"

Looking even more worrisome, Mrs. Cole stood, before placing a hand on Tom's shoulder. "You wait here, young man. I'll be back. Watch them, and if either of them move, yell as loud as you can. Understand?"

Tom nodded again, furiously. "Right. Hurry back."

With that, Mrs. Cole had left the cave, and Tom's face had lost its expression of perturbation and innocence _. "Carry your medical supplies everywhere, do you?"_ He muttered under his breath. "But you don't take it with you when you _hear children screaming?_ What sort of an orphanage matron are you?"

Elizabeth shakily pulled herself out from behind the rock formation, far more frightened than she had been just a moment earlier, but far angrier as well. She was such a mix of emotions, it was difficult to see straight.

"You should leave, Miss Warren," Tom murmured, his eyes fixed on his two victims'. "Mrs. Cole will be back."

"But . . . aren't you going to torture me, too?" Elizabeth asked, her hazel eyes as large as saucers. Even as soon as the words left her lips, she knew they had been wrong.

Tom heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes. "Obviously not. Mrs. Cole will be back any second. If I were to torture you, causing you to scream, it would make her quicken her pace. Mrs. Cole would come here _faster."_ He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, deep in thought. "As I said, you should leave." Tom broke his gaze away from Amy and Dennis', and brought them to Elizabeth's, with such ferocity that she felt as though he was looking straight through her. _"Before I get tempted."_ Elizabeth nodded, a slight chill making its way from her bare feet to her ginger locks. "And you mustn't breathe a word of this to _anyone_ , do you understand?"

She did understand, but she did not fully. For instance, she was not aware of how Tom had been able to implant visions and ideas into people's minds, and she did not know what would bring him to do something like this. Elizabeth did get angry with her fellow orphans from time to time, but she never had done anything to hurt them. Still, Elizabeth did not want to speak to Tom any longer, and, instead of carrying on their current conversation, she nodded her head furiously, and fled from the cave.

Little did she know that her whole world was about to change.


	3. Questions and Answers

The rest of that week had been a bit of a blur for Elizabeth, but an eventful blur. Amy and Dennis had immediately been positioned in the orphanage "hospital quarters", if one could call them that. Mostly, the "hospital quarters" consisted of a barren, white room with no windows, a few cots, and a cabinet full of terrible-tasting sorts of tonics and medicines.

Elizabeth had only been there a few times, once, after having had a fever, and another time, after getting a rather nasty case of stomach flu. Needless to say, in her limited time being there, she had developed a distinct loathing for the "hospital quarters". Still, Elizabeth made a point to visit the quarters as often as she was able, as to check on Amy and Dennis.

After a few days, Tom's victims were functioning normally again, save the fact that they didn't talk nearly as much as they used to, and, when they did, only in hushed whispers, usually to each other. Elizabeth, despite knowing the cause to their silence, did not spill a word to Mrs. Cole.

But it wasn't as if she hadn't tried.

Nearly every time Elizabeth saw Mrs. Cole, she attempted to tell her of Tom, and of the visions he had implanted in their minds. But she couldn't. The words would get stuck in her throat, like too much garbage clogging a drainpipe.

And to top that off, every time Elizabeth saw Tom – which was a few times each day – he would send her threatening glances, as if to project a warning to her without the inconvenience of the spoken word. After the Thursday of that week, she was used to it. In fact, all the fear that she had felt in the cave with Tom seemed to have dissipated overnight. Instead, the fear was replaced with an entirely different emotion, if one could call it that: fascination.

~0~

Summer was definitely here, Elizabeth knew. The bitter cold of London was drifting away, replaced with a serene warmth that filled her up, like a balloon filling with air. The days were getting longer, much longer, and it seemed as though, when she was to go to bed at night, that she was simply settling down for a nap in midday.

Despite this, Elizabeth hardly went out of doors, for, she had many people that she knew at Wool's – and vice versa – but no real "friends". Most of the girls at Wool's were, as Elizabeth saw them, incredibly shallow and rather simple-minded, and too dependent on males. The boys were even worse. They were loud, annoying, childish, and seemed to hate the girls. So Elizabeth stayed by herself for the most part.

She didn't mind solitude though. It was quiet and serene, allowing Elizabeth to collect her thoughts fully. The more time she spent to herself, it became clearer to her as to why Tom did the same. And the more time she spent alone, the more Elizabeth came to question Tom.

 _What did he have against Amy and Dennis? How was he able to do what he did? Could he do it again?_

Elizabeth's mind was swarming with questions – most of which she was too afraid to ask Tom. It almost hurt, having this much curiosity inside of her.

"Elizabeth?" A woman's voice called from outside of her door. Elizabeth tore herself away from her thoughts, looking up from her hands in her lap, which she had been staring at for the past few minutes.

A flustered-looking woman with hair the same shade of red as Elizabeth's let herself into the room. She appeared out of breath.

"Hello, Martha," Elizabeth spoke quietly. She had not used her voice for a while, and it croaked in a very unladylike manner.

"Elizabeth," Martha nodded, before seating herself on the twin-sized bed that sat in the room, heaving a sigh. "I didn't see you at luncheon."

Elizabeth's eyes drifted to the tiny window in her room. Birds twittered amongst themselves outside her window, and several of the orphans were playing in the courtyard. "I wasn't hungry." This, of course, was not true.

Martha gave a slight chuckle. "Just as well. A fight broke out at the boys' table. They _are_ quite childish, still." She turned, attempting to make eye contact with the girl that sat beside her, but Elizabeth only stared out of her window, as if boring a hole through something with her eyes. "Are you feeling alright, Lizzy?"

Elizabeth tore her eyes away from the window, and put them on Martha. Martha only ever called her "Lizzy" when she was feeling sentimental, which wasn't often. Was she well, though? Elizabeth felt a growing pain in her stomach, though she wasn't sure it was from hunger, and her skin was pale and clammy.

"I . . . think so," Elizabeth answered slowly. This was the answer that Martha wanted.

Martha simply eyed her skeptically. "You don't look it. You're rather pale. Perhaps you ought to lie down."

Elizabeth heaved a sigh. "I _told_ you, I'm feeling fine. I'm simply hungry." She made eye contact with Martha, and forced a smile. "There's no need to worry about me."

Martha grinned sheepishly, and rather childishly at that. "I know, Lizzy. But . . ." Martha sighed, as if trying to remember a lost thought. "I do it anyhow. I've known you forever, and you seem to get older day by day. You're already so much of a grown-up, I almost feel like I have to keep you small."

Elizabeth shrugged, looking away, sinking back into the comfort of her own thoughts. She felt like an adult inside, or, nearly one. She was very intelligent, far more so than many of her peers, and more emotionally stable, as she saw it.

Martha seemed to have caught onto the idea that Elizabeth was too far away, and stood up off of the bed. "I had better go on downstairs. Mrs. Cole will want my help preparing supper. If you need anything, just ask." Elizabeth nodded slightly, and listened as Martha stepped out of the room, and downstairs to the kitchen.

She was alone again.

Elizabeth watched the children down below, shooting them an abundantly intense gaze . A small group was tossing a rubber ball around, screaming at the top of their lungs, whilst a gang of girl sat on the curb, chatting amongst themselves. They were already so much like "proper women" already, Elizabeth observed. Nonetheless, her mind did not dwell on them long. As she scanned the ground below her, Elizabeth's focus turned to a solitary individual, sitting on the curb by himself, scribbling something down on a piece of paper furiously. He had dark hair, without a strand - that Elizabeth could see - out of place. He wore a very proper-looking collared shirt, the sleeves rolled up in a boyish manner, with a newsboy cap that blocked any possible view of his eyes. Even though he was a short distance away from where Elizabeth stood, there was no mistaking him.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

Even the thought of his name sent involuntary shivers up her spine. Suddenly, some of Martha's attempts at conversation floated back to Elizabeth's mind. _"A fight broke out at the boys' table . . ."_ A sinking feeling settled itself into her stomach. _Why, why, why weren't you at lunch?_ Elizabeth furiously asked herself.

For a moment, Elizabeth just stared at him, studying his face, wondering what on earth he was writing – or _who_ he was writing to. Then, a strange urge rose up inside of her. Part of her suddenly wanted more than anything to go down into the courtyard, so she could talk to him, and ask him all of the questions she had held inside of her.

But she could not move. Elizabeth was frozen, stuck ogling at him. His hand swept over the paper with ease and finesse. He obviously had no trouble putting his thoughts into words, something Elizabeth had not been able to do very well. Tom still wore a look of concentration. He took his cap off of his head, and set it in his lap, the summer breeze blowing tufts of his ebony hair every which way. Folding his hands, Tom set down the paper, and glanced upwards. Elizabeth's eyes widened as he sent yet another menacing frown her way. He almost seemed to be trying to talk to her.

The feeling passed, and Elizabeth found herself staring at the wall, lost in concentration yet again. Pangs blew up in her stomach like fireworks, but not from nerves. Despite herself, Elizabeth was starving. Allowing herself one more glance (Tom did not look up at her again, she left her room, and trekked downstairs for lunch.

As Elizabeth entered the mess hall, with its high ceiling and tiled floors, she noticed no evidence of a fight. The floor gleamed, still spotless as ever. Either the fight hadn't been as messy as Elizabeth had assumed, or Martha had done a stupendous job cleaning.

Elizabeth headed to a smaller table, in the far corner of the room, where several containers lay nearly empty from luncheon. With a slight huff of a sigh, she scooped what appeared to be some sort of a watery stew into a plastic bowl, and seated herself at the far end of the girls' table. The mess hall was very large and echoey; Elizabeth could hear her own breathing quite easily.

She also heard quite clearly the sound of the door to the outside opening and shutting quite rapidly. There was the sound of the scuffing of dress shoes against the tiled floor, and heavy breathing.

Elizabeth set down her spoon, and craned her neck, so as to catch a glimpse of whomever was entering. All she saw was a flash of darkened hair, and a white shirt.

In an instant, Elizabeth nearly jumped out of her chair, not bothering to put her soup away – Martha would surely do it later – and followed Tom, up the stairs, to the orphanage sleeping quarters.

As it happened, Tom had his own room, too. It was slightly smaller than her own, it seemed. Or perhaps that was just an illusion. His room was more decorated than Elizabeth's. Tom had a lovely, old-looking wardrobe, and several seashells littered his windowsill.

Seeming to be quite out of breath, Tom entered his room, cracking his door just slightly, and stuffed a handful of _something_ into his wardrobe. He then flopped – there wasn't really a better word to describe it – onto his bed, shutting his eyes.

"Come in, Miss Warren." He murmured. "There's no use loitering outside."

Elizabeth's breath left her for a moment, leaving her speechless, and thoughtless. Almost as an involuntary movement, she opened the door, and let herself in.

"So, how are you?" Tom asked absentmindedly, giving a half-hearted attempt at conversation. "Summer is definitely here."

"F-fine," Elizabeth said, her voice shaking slightly. The fear was flooding back to her in waves.

"Good, good." Tom sat up, and folded his hands, frowning, and stared at Elizabeth as if boring a hole through her. "So, if you don't mind me asking, why are you here?"

Elizabeth took in a breath through her nose, and hardened her stare as well. "I have questions for you, Riddle. Why did you show Amy and Dennis their parents dying?"

"Because." Tom said, suddenly seeming very interested at the wall. "They were rude to me. Rather annoying. Anything else?"

"Just because someone's rude to you doesn't mean you have to torture them!" Elizabeth yelled indignantly, letting out a boatload of emotion that she had kept inside of her. "That's barbaric!"

"Is it?" He said quietly, his dark eyes snapping back to Elizabeth. "Did you come here with the intent of yelling at me, Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth couldn't look him in the eye; it made her dizzy. "I don't know." She felt her ears getting warm; they were probably as red as a watermelon.

Tom stood up with a sigh. "And why haven't you told yet? You know what happened to those two, why don't you spill?"

Elizabeth felt the pang in her stomach. She already felt guilty about that, but Tom made her feel a thousand times worse. "I don't know . . ." She squeaked, staring at the ground, her vision beginning to be blurred by tears.

"It would do you well not to speak about affairs you don't know. You'll appear far more stupid than you already do." Tom opened the door, as if to usher Elizabeth out.

Not once looking up from the ground, she let herself out, her mind swimming with emotion, some spilling from her eyes in the process. In the past hour, she had felt more than she had in her entire life. What was wrong with her?

* * *

 ** _If you enjoyed this chapter - or just the story in general - please, leave a review! They make day. :)_**


	4. A Damaged Twosome

Dennis Bishop awoke to darkness. He could hear a faint ringing in his ears, and his eyes hurt terribly. He could see nothing through them, though. Was he going blind? No, Dennis decided, he was not, as what appeared to be the ceiling of a very clean – and very white room – faded slowly into view.

Where was he? For a few minutes, Dennis simply continued to stare at the ceiling, breathing low, steady breaths. He was reminded vaguely of something, but he could not place his finger on it. As the seconds ticked by, Dennis felt a sharp pain in his neck and upper back. He needed to sit up.

Dennis placed his hands on either side of him, and slowly hoisted himself up. Almost instantly, the room went black again, blood rushing from his head to his body. He blinked a few times, and the black went away. A sinking feeling was washing over him like a wave, steady and cold. Dennis was reminded of something very distant, as he looked about the room he was in. Very clean, very white, and, if he had had to describe it further, very bland.

As he let his eyes drift about the room further, he noticed a girl about his age lying in one of the cots in the room, staring at the ceiling just as he had earlier. She wore her hair in braids, and her breathing was shallow. Who was she?

Overwhelmed with curiosity, Dennis threw the sheets of his cot off of him, and stumbled over to the girl. She would have been quite pretty if she did not have her mouth open, drooling ever so slightly, and eyes rolled back in her head.

"Wake up," Dennis said – or tried to say. The words didn't come out of his mouth properly, as they had been in his head. Again, he said, "Wake up", only this time, in more of a harsher tone. A ghost of a whisper floated out of his mouth, and down to the girl below him.

She must have heard what he said, because her eyes snapped open. She processed her situation far quicker than Dennis had, because immediately, she sat up, before clutching at her head. Her eyes found his, and she spoke in the same voice that he had:

"Who are you? Where am I?"

Dennis could only frown at her, a look of worry fixed upon his face. "I'm Dennis. Dennis Bishop?" This girl gave him a strange feeling of déjà vu. He was absolutely certain he had seen her before this moment.

"I'm Amy," she said timidly. "Where are my parents?"

Dennis' eyes widened ever so slightly, in remembrance. He had had a dream . . . Maybe he was still dreaming. He quickly shut his eyes. _Wake up . . . Wake up . . . . ._

Nothing happened. He met Amy's eyes once more. "Did you have a dream?"

Amy's face was contorted in concentration. "I . . . think so. But it didn't seem like a dream. It seemed . . . real, somehow."

"What did you see?" Dennis was starting to get excited.

Amy's eyes dropped to her hands, which rested immobile in her lap. "I saw my mum and dad. They were in a hotel on a balcony, and dad was reading a newspaper." She looked back up at Dennis, and continued, in a voice cracked with emotion. "There was an explosion, I'm not sure where it came from. They were gone." Dennis put his arm around Amy's shoulder, starting to understand.

Amy simply stared at the blankness of one of the room's walls. "There was something else that I saw, though. A boy."

"A boy?" Dennis furrowed his brow in concentration. "Are you sure?"

Amy nodded, and lay her head back onto her soft, feathered pillow. "With dark eyes . . . Black eyes, like staring into the soul of a demon . . . "

"But, there was no boy-" Dennis muttered, as she drifted away to sleep. He had a sinking feeling growing in his stomach. Life would not be the same, that was all he knew.

::::

Elizabeth felt the light of day consume her as she opened her eyes for the first time on the first Saturday of summer. She had no plans, and, for the first few seconds of the day, no worries. Quickly, she threw on a knee-length skirt, and a turquoise blouse with a particular flowy quality to it. To top off the look, Elizabeth pulled her ginger hair back with a ribbon to match.

She hurried downstairs to the mess hall, where she intended to plan out the day, bit by bit, until the meal was over. _Perhaps a walk in downtown London,_ Elizabeth wondered, as she jumped over the last three stairs, with a rather "unladylike" landing, as Mrs. Cole might say.

 _Maybe take a book, too, to read in the park . . ._

Elizabeth stopped dead, as she locked eyes with a fellow orphan on the other end of the mess hall. Somehow, something told her, that this would not turn out to be the day she had fantasized.

With less of a spring in her step, she walked over to where Tom Riddle stood, scooping some watery oatmeal into a bowl. "Good morning," Elizabeth muttered, as she got a bowl for herself.

Tom spun around, wearing the same irate look he always did. Today, however, it dissipated and was replaced with somewhat of an " _Oh, I know you"_ look.

"Have a nice evening?" He said, turning back to the table of food.

Elizabeth gave an inward sigh. "I'm sorry about yesterday. I was tired, and-"

"No, you weren't." Tom shook his head as he strolled to an empty seat at the end of one of the long, mahogany tables in the mess hall. One was usually for the girls, the other for the boys. Tom's seat was totally isolated from the other boys' seats. While the majority of the orphan boys sat close to the door, Tom sat close to the food, by himself. Elizabeth, feeling as if she were invited to sit down as well, did so.

"And there's no need to feel sorry," Tom continued, as he peered at the other boys, some of which had already noticed Elizabeth sitting at the boys' table. "But, in the future, I would prefer if we weren't to have any more . . . rows."

Elizabeth took a bite of her oatmeal, and turned bright pink as some of the members of the girls' table noticed where she sat. Their eyes were widened, and some of them laughed. She nodded absentmindedly.

Tom seemed to have noticed the girls as well, because he shot a harsh, stone-cold look their way, that seemed to make it stop. "You're weak, Elizabeth."

Elizabeth furrowed her brow, looking down at her oatmeal furiously. "Oh?"

"I just mean in the sense that you care about what other people think." Tom shook his head, as if he were a parent trying to teach a child that couldn't comprehend what he was saying.

"But they're . . . . my friends!" Elizabeth said defiantly, only to receive a skeptically raised eyebrow from the boy seated next to her.

"You haven't got any friends, Warren," Tom said. Elizabeth let that sink in. No, no, she did not. But the subtleness got to her, and she felt stupid. "And good thing, too. All the people here are imbeciles. The boys are apes, and the girls think they're princesses living in a fairytale. No one here has got any _brains!"_ He scooped a bite of oatmeal into his mouth, with a distinct ferocity that swiftly changed to disgust. "Who cooked _this?"_

Elizabeth sniggered. "Martha, I believe. She's the caretaker."

"Even Dennis Bishop could cook something better than _this."_ Tom stopped abruptly, remembering. "He was the biggest ignoramus I've ever had the misfortune of coming into contact with . . ."

"And so you tortured him," Elizabeth rolled her eyes, setting down her spoon. It really _was_ terrible, and she did not wish to eat any more.

"Will you give that a _rest?"_ Tom glared at her, but she did not flinch. "I _have_ a conscience, you know."

"You could've fooled me," Elizabeth retorted, her eyes flashing _. "Tom."_

Tom gave an irritated twitch, almost as if there was a fly buzzing around his head that he could not swat. "Riddle, if you don't mind. Or Marvolo, in less formal instances."

Elizabeth almost laughed out loud. "'Marvolo'? Whoever would name their child-?"

"Then just Riddle, if you think it's that terrible." Tom sounded defensive.

"No, I don't think it's terrible. Well, it sort of is, but-" Elizabeth's voice drifted away. She didn't dare say anything else. "Have you any plans for today?"

Tom clasped his hands together on the table, and shut his eyes. "Hmmmm . . ." Elizabeth suddenly wished she hadn't asked. "No," he said at last, his dark eyes snapping open, "You?"

For a silent moment, Elizabeth hid away in her palace of thoughts. Did she really want Tom tagging along with her for the entire day? She sneaked a glance at him. He was continuing to stare at the girls, his eyes flashing dangerously. If he were less menacing, she figured, Tom would have friends.

He was attractive, that was for sure, but Elizabeth couldn't see how anyone would want to court him. With a temper like the one that he possessed, Tom was as dangerous as a ticking time bomb.

Elizabeth pulled herself out of her thoughts, and looked away from Tom, so as to prevent any further "ideas" about him.

"Well," she spoke at last, using as collected a tone as she could muster, "I was planning on taking a walk in the park, or going downtown."

Tom gave a sigh as he stood up, and put his half-full bowl on the food counter. "I can't eat any more of this." He turned to Elizabeth, and gave her a forced smile. It didn't suit him, and it was very unpleasant to look at; it made Elizabeth very uncomfortable. "Have a decent walk, then, I suppose."

She was taken aback. Elizabeth had been under the impression that he was going to come with her. "Aren't you coming with me?" She asked dumbly. "I thought you weren't doing anything today."

Tom shook his head, rolling his eyes. "I meant I wasn't doing anything that concerned you, or that needed you to tag along with me."

"Oh." Elizabeth felt blood rush to her ears. They were probably a bright pink color, just like her face. "So what _are_ you doing?"

He just frowned. "It isn't quite your business, Warren."

Elizabeth stood up and placed her plate on top of Tom's, feeling stupid. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude." It was almost as if, despite the fact that he was the same age as she was, Tom was several years older than her. The way he spoke was harsh and commanding, and the words he had stored in his arsenal of a vocabulary were far more advanced than the words of their peers.

"Have you seen Bishop or Benson lately?" He asked, raising an eyebrow almost as if it were second nature.

"Er . . . no," she answered. Tom strode rather quickly out of the mess hall, Elizabeth at his heels, her red hair flying out behind her like a sail. They turned down a corner, and entered through a door labeled as "The Hospital Quarters".

Amy and Dennis did look much better. They, for one, were sitting up in their beds and whispering to each other, while taking occasional sips from two glasses of water that sat on a side table between their two beds. Still, Elizabeth could tell that they weren't fully well. Dark rings sagged underneath both of their eyes, a sign of extreme tiredness. Besides that, the two of them didn't react nearly as much as Elizabeth had intended them to, when Tom entered the room.

Instead of the horrified muffled screams she had anticipated, Amy and Dennis simply glanced at him, as if acknowledging his presence. Elizabeth was completely ignored. But she hadn't honestly expected much, considering the fact that the pair didn't know her anyway.

Tom seated himself at the edge of Amy's bed, as if he owned the place, and looked straight into her eyes. "Good to see you, Benson."

"You . . as well . . ." She spoke slowly, but clearly.

"And you, Bishop?" Tom asked, turning to the pimpled boy. Dennis nodded slowly. "Good, good."

"They're speaking!" Elizabeth cried despite herself. "Tom, they're speaking!" Tom gave the same twitch as before, and she corrected herself. "Riddle, I mean. But do they remember anything?"

Tom gave a smile. It wasn't as forced as before, but, somehow, this one looked worse on him. "No. They only remember me."

"Then . . . why aren't they scared of you?" Elizabeth let her eyes stray to Amy and Dennis' demented faces, feeling a twang of pity for the two of them.

The same smile was fixed on Tom's face. Part of Elizabeth just wanted to wipe the expression off of his face. It did not suit him. His smile sent chills up her spine; it was so crazed. "They remember my face, and they remember what I showed them. But they don't know that it was I who gave the vision to them."

A knot in Elizabeth's stomach formed, and tightened so that she felt at a loss for breath. A darkness enveloped her, and she was falling. _Falling . . . Falling . . . ._ No impact ever came. The last thing Elizabeth saw as she shut her eyes, were the pair in front of her – the sable ones that towered over her. The crazed ones. The ones she kept swimming in.

 _"Mrs. Cole! Mrs. Cole, come quick . . ."_

 ** _If you enjoyed this chapter, please be sure to review! :) (Also, thank you for all the kind reviews I received last chapter. I seriously apprecate it. ;p)_**


	5. A Newborn Feud

Darkness had engulfed Elizabeth Warren. Sharp pains exploded in her head, pulsing to a point of no return. And, yet, she was still breathing. She could hear a faint voice, repeating the same comforting phrases, ringing in her ears like a bell.

 _"Wake up . . . Open your eyes . . . You're fine, Warren,"_ a boy's voice spoke. His voice was so forceful, Elizabeth wanted to do as he said _._ Still _,_ as much as she wanted to, Elizabeth found that she could not. Her eyes were glued shut tight. Or so it seemed. Her eyelids seemed to weigh an infinite amount.

 _"Deep breaths, Elizabeth_ ," a new voice entered her mind, a girl's voice. " _You're going to be alright."_

Elizabeth opened her mouth steadily, and let in a gust of air. Instantly, it seemed to flow up to her brain, and provided the needed oxygen. With immense difficulty, her eyes flickered open, and two familiar faces came into view. There was, of course, Martha, her face wearing an expression of relief, her ginger hair strewn all about in an almost carefree manner. Obviously, her attention had been on far more important factors than her appearance. Maybe that was why Elizabeth liked Martha so much. There were not many girls that she knew that prioritized in this manner.

And, as Elizabeth had anticipated, sitting on the edge of her cot in the healing quarters, was Tom, his eyes blank, as if he had been staring at Elizabeth's unconscious face for a while. His lips were pursed, and his hair looked the same as it had always looked – swept over in a careful style, and as dark as his eyes.

"What . . . happened?" Elizabeth whispered.

Martha bit her lip. "You fainted. You've been unconscious for maybe an hour?" She stood, and opened a cabinet, pulling out a bottle of tonic and a spoon. "Here," Martha said, as she seated herself back down, with almost the faintest trace of a wince, "have a spoonful. It should make you feel better."

Reluctantly, Elizabeth spooned a bit of the tonic into her mouth. It tasted terrible – almost as if someone had had the idea of mixing gutter water with gruel. She sputtered a bit, but eventually swallowed. Surprisingly enough, the tonic made her feel a bit worse. Now she had a headache _and_ a stomachache.

"Tom told me that you two had been visiting poor Amy and Dennis to see how they were doing," Martha continued, in an almost mechanical voice. "I expect you just weren't ready for the shock, Lizzy." Tom smirked slightly at the name. "You fainted where you stood. Tom called for Mrs. Cole, but she was . . . . well . . . . I'm not sure what she was doing, but I got here first. And good thing, too. You were as pale as a sheet. Not that you look much better now, though. Do you need some water?"

Elizabeth raised a hand to her face. It was cold, and unnaturally so. "Yes . . . thank you," she murmured, bringing her hand down to her lap.

Martha nodded, but stopped before she could get out of the door. "I know what it's like to lose someone dear to you, Lizzy. If you ever need to talk to someone . . ." Her eyes were sparkling with tears. For a moment, Elizabeth had wanted to get up and hug her friend, but Martha had disappeared.

"Lizzy, is it, now?" Tom asked almost as soon as she had left. He gave a sort of half laugh. "Who has the abnormal name now?"

Elizabeth blushed a ferocious shade of scarlet. 'Lizzy' had been a name given to her a long time ago, when she was just five years old. Martha had been playing with her, and the name just sort of stuck. It was special, a relic of Elizabeth's childhood. But now it seemed stupid.

"Well, just 'Elizabeth' if you think it's that bad," she retorted, her voice coming back to her with remarkable speed.

"I never said it was _bad_. It's just different." Tom's eyes drifted over to Amy and Dennis, who were sleeping, tiny snores floating up from them. "Martha is ridiculous. _You_ , friends with _them?_ Has she even met you?" He snorted.

Elizabeth glared at the back of his head, but said nothing. Martha had been with Elizabeth far longer than Tom had, but he did have a point. Martha had a certain innocence to her. She would never suspect that Elizabeth had never had a single friend except for her. The glare on Elizabeth's face softened as she continued to bore holes with her eyes at Tom.

Secretly, for the past few days, she had been wondering (though, hoping was a more appropriate term) if she and Tom would become friends. He was not exactly "friendly", and he had an – as Elizabeth liked to put it - inadvertent habit of making her seem stupid, but he hardly ever glared at her anymore, and he was very intelligent, unlike all the other children Elizabeth knew. Besides, as she kept telling herself, he was lonely too. Perhaps with a friend, he would stop being so introverted and strange. Perhaps he would be even the slightest bit kinder.

Suddenly, a troupe of male voices sounded, and Elizabeth tore her eyes away from Tom, and Tom tore his eyes away from his slumbering victims. "They're apes, they are," Elizabeth muttered. "Complete monkeys."

Tom's brow was furrowed as he listened. The voices were getting louder as they drew nearer. "Get down."

"What?" Elizabeth asked worriedly. Tom just simply put a finger to his lips in an attempt to shush her. With his other hand, he grabbed her shoulder and laid her down in the cot.

"Pretend to be asleep," he muttered. Elizabeth obeyed, shutting her eyes. "Whatever happens, don't open those eyes." He sounded hushed, but his voice contained an element of worry, albeit a miniscule one at that.

 _"Riddle!"_ A boy's voice sounded as Elizabeth felt Tom move up from her bed. She could hear the pattering of several other feet. Maybe five, six boys in the room, she guessed. "What are you doing here?"

"I had a headache," Elizabeth heard Tom's voice. "I'm sorry. What have I missed, Stubbs?" Stubbs? Elizabeth recognized that name – Billy Stubbs. He was a rather impertinent boy with sandy blonde hair and green eyes that had a tendency to show off in front of females. She didn't like him much, from the small amount of time that she had known him.

"Don't make excuses, Riddle," a different boy piped up. "We know why you're here."

"Oh do you?" Tom sounded vaguely amused.

Billy gave almost a sort of half-growl, and spoke, "To hide from us. You're in trouble, Tom, and you know it!"

"In trouble? What've I done?" Elizabeth nearly smiled as she listened to him playing along.

"You've killed Amy and Dennis! You're abnormal! You belong in an asylum, you do!" A different boy screamed. Elizabeth heard a sloshing sound, and realized that he had spat at Tom. Fury rose in her stomach.

"Charming," Tom said quietly. He sounded angry now. "And, dear Mr. Whalley, I never _killed_ anyone. I only showed Benson and Bishop. . . " His voice trailed away. Elizabeth understood. Tom surely wouldn't tell _them._

"You still belong in the asylum!" Billy Stubbs said indignantly. "You 'showed' them what? What did you do? Why – won't – you tell – me?!" His last few words were broken a bit, because, as Elizabeth had guessed, he had lunged at Tom. There was the sound of someone hitting the floor, a kind of "ummph" before a thump. For a moment, Elizabeth thought that one of Tom's accusers had been the one that had been thrown to the ground, but, as she opened her eyes a crack, she found that it was Tom who lay on the floor. He held a hand to his mouth, where she presumed one of the boys had hit him

"You'll regret that," Tom said quietly, standing up, surprisingly enough. His mouth was bleeding. He took a step toward Billy Stubbs. What happened next was completely incredible. Billy's skin slowly changed. Instead of the pale color it usually stayed, huge pores opened on his body, covering him with hundreds of boils. Billy looked disgusted. He brought a hand up to his face, where he could see it. It, too, was covered with the same hideous boils.

"What did you _do_ to him?" Whalley screamed. "We need Martha! Mrs. Cole, anyone! Someone, please!"

Tom smiled, and seated himself once more on Elizabeth's bed. The boys were running out of the hospital quarters with remarkable speed. Her eyes snapped all the way open. For a moment, they hurt, but the pain quickly dissipated. "Oh, Tom, your mouth!" She gasped. It looked much worse up close. His lip was all puffed up, and one of his teeth wasn't as straight as it usually was.

"I'm fine," Tom reassured her. "I couldn't say the same for dear Billy, though." He smiled that same crazed smile that Elizabeth loathed. It looked even more crazed with his messed-up lip.

"But won't you get in trouble?" She asked. As soon as she laid her eyes on Tom's, she knew the answer: _No._ Of course. Even if the boys told Mrs. Cole, she would never believe that Tom had the ability to do such a thing. If anyone would get shipped to an asylum, it would be Stubbs and Whalley.

"Do you think I belong in an asylum?" Tom asked her with a more serious tone. "I'm not exactly . . . normal."

Elizabeth had to let that soak in. Yes, he was strange; she knew no one like him. Still, he was sane. And sane people did not belong in asylums, she decided. "No. You don't belong there."

Tom gave a sort of smile. It wasn't crazed; it looked more like a saddened smile. "I wonder sometimes why I can do these things. I don't think of myself as 'abnormal' so much as 'gifted.' Does that make sense?" Elizabeth nodded.

Suddenly, he hopped off of the bed and got down all his hands and knees, searching the ground for something. "Where is it?" He asked.

"Where's what?" Elizabeth asked in return. He ignored her and continued to scuff about.

"I saw it . . . When Billy lunged at me . . ." Tom muttered as he felt along the floor with his hands. _"Aha!"_ He smiled, and held something up for Elizabeth to see. It was a mouth organ, nothing special. It was tarnished, Elizabeth could see that clearly from where she lay, and it looked as though it had been used many times before.

"What's that for?" Elizabeth asked, hopping out of bed to get a closer look. She saw that it had the initials 'W. L. S.' engraved on it.

Tom pocketed the mouth organ. "It's for my collection."

"Of . . . what? Mouth organs?" Elizabeth frowned.

Tom gave a small laugh, almost as if he was tired. "Of items from my fellow orphans. Just something to remember them by. For instance," He stood, and began to count off of his fingers. "I've got a yo-yo from Dennis Bishop, a toy train, a thimble from Amy Benson, and now a mouth organ."

"But what's the use of having these things?" Elizabeth was confused. "Surely you don't _play_ with them."

"Like I said," Tom said, walking out of the hospital quarters, Elizabeth on his heels, "they're just for looking at."

She didn't bother to remind him that he had never once said that. "And the W. L. S. on the organ, it stands for . . . ?"

"William Lawrance Stubbs." Tom gave a half-hearted sigh. "But we won't be seeing much of him anymore, will we?" She nodded. He was, as usual, quite correct.

 _ **Next chapter bites the figurative dust. :) If you enjoy this story so far, please leave a review! They mean the world to me. :) See you in a week!**_


	6. An Undisclosed Meeting

Tom Marvolo Riddle gave a huff of a sigh as he turned the knob of the creaky wooden door that led to his bedroom at Wool's orphanage. Praying it wouldn't make a sound – and it didn't, thank goodness – he opened the door, and closed it behind him discreetly. He was aware that it was supper time, and all the other orphans would be downstairs, but being secretive was a habit he had no intention of breaking. Tom reached into his pocket, feeling around in it. His fingers brushed against a metal object, and he gave an inward sigh of relief. It hadn't fallen out of his pocket whilst he had been dining . . .

The "it", naturally, was a small, tarnished mouth organ. Tom ran his fingers over the mouth organ, feeling over the letters 'W L S' that were engraved on the underside of it. He gave a shaky breath, and slunk away from the door, and seated himself on his small cot that took up the majority of space in his cramped bedroom. Involuntarily, he brought that organ to his mouth, and gently brushed his lips upon the letters.

Tom had taken several things from his fellow orphans many times before – having never been caught – and he had not once had any regrets. But this time was different, somehow. For the first time, he felt something strange growing in the pit of his stomach, and he had a guess as to what it was.

For the past few weeks, someone had actually been talking to him – a girl, no less. Elizabeth Warren. At first, he had been annoyed, and naturally so. She had intruded on him. Still, the more time Tom spent with Elizabeth, the more he was intrigued. She was a very intelligent girl, and a very understanding one as well. Instead of being shunned, as Tom had been treated countless time before by his fellow orphans, Elizabeth seemed to see him as an actual human being, and, despite himself, he enjoyed that. And, lately, Tom was beginning to see her as more than he had for his life at Wool's.

But he wasn't sure how to react to this feeling. For the long eleven years Tom Riddle had been present at Wool's, he had been taught one thing – Depend on one person: yourself. He had never intended to so much as speak to Elizabeth Warren, but it hadn't happened that way.

Pushing away his mixed feelings, Tom stood up again, and opened the left door of a huge, mahogany wardrobe that stood against the wall opposite him, and pulled out a tiny cardboard box. He smiled almost lovingly at its contents – a yo-yo from a certain Dennis Bishop, a toy train that he had picked up from a boy at his school, a thimble he had nicked from Amy Benson, and now, a mouth organ from Billy Stubbs. For reasons he couldn't explain, Tom was extremely attached to these items, and never, never, did he intend to part from them.

With a glimmer of a scowl, Tom shut his wardrobe, and climbed back onto his bed, where he stared out of the tiny window in his room wistfully. He had many an idea swirling around inside his darkened mind.

~0~

Elizabeth Warren felt an ever-twisting knot forming in her stomach as she lifted her head to the rising sun on the morning that had followed her previous slumber the night before. She had retired to bed shortly after eating dinner; she was tired, light-headed, and in dire need of sleep. Still, Elizabeth hadn't fallen asleep until much, much later; there had been much on her mind. She was worried about Billy Stubbs, even if he had been the one to come onto Tom first. How would he react? Not positively, she guessed. This made her worry about Tom, naturally. If Billy had attacked him before, who was to say he would not do it again?

Despite the swarming mass of thought that whizzed around inside her head, Elizabeth's eyes drifted to the sun, still shining outside. It illuminated the orphanage courtyard beautifully, almost spreading it open as if beckoning her to come play. But she could not, not yet, at least. In a series of quick movements, Elizabeth pulled off her cotton dressing gown, and replaced it with a grey jumper with a scarlet sash tied around the middle. As usual, she tied her hair up in the back of her head, tossed on a pair of flats and was on her way downstairs.

A sigh of relief escaped her lips as her eyes fell on Tom, who was seated at his usual spot at the end of the boys' table in the mess hall, reading a thick book whilst spooning cereal into his mouth slowly. Elizabeth picked up a slice of buttered toast with jam and went to go join him. For a moment, he did not acknowledge the fact that she sat beside him, but after a moment or two (or three), Tom glanced up at Elizabeth only to return to his book once more.

She noticed that his once injured lip had returned to its normal state, guessing that natural causes had had nothing to do with it.

Elizabeth did not bother to ask what he was reading, or how he slept, or what he intended to do with his day. She knew better. The pair stayed silent, instead, and Elizabeth entertained herself by glancing down the table every few seconds to see if Billy was downstairs yet. He was not, and she understood why. If Elizabeth had been covered with the same amount of boils that currently covered Billy Stubbs, she would not have dared show herself, even if there was no one to impress at the orphanage. Billy, however, had a whole army of friends, and had much respect to lose.

Elizabeth quickly stuffed the remainder of her toast into her mouth, but she did not budge from her seat. She wanted to see if Tom intended to speak to her. A moment passed. He did not look up from his book. With an almost huff of a sigh, Elizabeth stood and walked away to put her dish away.

"Lizzy!"

Elizabeth stopped dead, and spun around on her heel. Even though 'Lizzy' was Martha's much-used nickname for Elizabeth, it felt strange and foreign when Tom spoke it. Still, he seemed to have no regrets, because he continued to stare intently at her, without the slightest trace of a wince. She tried not to break eye contact, hoping desperately that he would say something personal.

Her hopes were crushed, however, when Tom continued by saying, "Have you got a pencil on you?"

Elizabeth broke eye contact, setting her dirty dish on a pile. "No. I'm sorry."

Tom turned back to his book, a darker expression settling over his face. "Can't you go get one?" he muttered. She heaved a sigh, seating herself back next to him. The answer – no – seemed to been understood by Tom, because he did not say anything else for the next minute or two, during which Elizabeth kept her eyes glued to the staircase leading into the mess hall, with the occasional glance at the boy who sat beside her.

His wavy, ebony hair fell into his equally dark eyes, which were narrowed ever so slightly, in a somewhat menacing manner. Every now and then, he would give a huff of a breath, which Elizabeth guessed was out of concentration. She did not bother to read the words that he was trying to comprehend, trying her best not to get in his way, nor did she attempt to make any more conversations. The minutes ticked past, and she found herself staring deeply into his dark eyes. They were empty, yet full at the same time, like a river appearing to be muddy, but crystal clear in actuality.

"Elizabeth?" As an automatic reflex, she looked away, and pretended as if she had been staring straight ahead the whole time. As she had expected, Tom did not miss a beat, and said in an unwavering voice, "I cannot concentrate with you continuously staring at me. I'm going upstairs. Don't bother coming with."

No words came to Elizabeth as she watched him rise from his seat and closing his book, which she now saw was a plain notebook, like the ones she used for school. But it was summertime; why was he studying? There were several things she wanted to say, but she couldn't get the words to form in her mouth.

And, as she watched him disappear up the stairs to his room, the only thing she could muster was the faintest whisper, that could not have been heard even if you stood directly next to her. She spoke one word, but it stood for many in her brain.

Tom.

~0~

Tom, once again, shut himself in his room, and seated himself on his cot, now able to open his notebook once again, annoyance building up inside of him. The notebook he held in his hands belonged to a fellow orphan – Eric Whalley. Tom had nicked the notebook the night before, during supper. The notebook was a diary, mostly; the world according to Eric.

As Tom flipped through it, he grew anxious. He was bracing himself for his own name, spelt out in black and white, but, surprisingly, it never came. All Eric seemed to care about was what he and his friends were currently up to. And, as far as Tom had seen, it was nothing too intelligent. He shut the notebook, and slipped it inside his pillowcase, where no one would find it, unless they were really looking for it.

As soon as he did this, however, Tom heard faint voices outside his door, though he couldn't hear what they were saying. For a moment, half expecting the people at his door to be Eric and his goons, he braced himself for the worst.

Two knocks sounded at his door, and it opened, but not by who Tom expected. Mrs. Cole was at his door, accompanied with a bearded man with ginger hair, not unlike Elizabeth's, and a plum velvet suit, that clashed quite nicely.

"Tom?" Mrs. Cole asked quietly. "You've got a visitor. This is Mr. Dumberton –" Her face scrunched up, as if she was thinking very hard about something. "Sorry, Dunderbone. He's come in to tell you – well, I'll just leave him to it." And, just like that, she was gone, leaving Tom in the same room with "Dumberton."

The man smiled, and seated himself beside Tom, much to the boy's dislike. Tom attempted to move himself further away from the odd-looking man. "How do you do, Tom?" The man extended his hand in greeting. Reluctantly, and almost as if the hand contained an incurable disease, Tom grasped it and shook it rather limply. "I am Professor Dumbledore."

Tom immediately jerked back his hand, the reality of the situation sinking in. "'Professor'?" He was growing wary. "Is that like 'doctor'? What are you here for? Did she get you in to have a look at me?" The "she", was made obvious as Tom pointed a finger at the closed door where Mrs. Cole had stood only moments before.

"No, no." Dumbledore was smiling, making Tom even more anxious.

"I don't believe you," Tom said stubbornly. "She wants me looked at, doesn't she? Tell the truth!" These last three words he spoke with such ringing force that it almost startled himself. He tried not to flinch. For a few seconds, Tom just continued to stare at the Professor, waiting for him to speak. But he only smiled. "Who are you?" Tom asked.

"I have told you," Dumbledore said, his smile never fading once in the slightest. "My name is Professor Dumbledore and I work at a school called Hogwarts. I have come to offer you a place at my school – your new school, if you would like to come."

Tom still was not convinced. He leapt from his bed, raging with fury. Elizabeth must have told. She must have! "You can't kid me! The asylum, that's where you're from, isn't it? 'Professor', yes, of course – well, I'm not going, see? That old cat's the one who should be in the asylum. I never did anything to little Amy Benson or Dennis Bishop, and you can ask them, they'll tell you!"

Dumbledore did not flinch once throughout the few minutes it took for Tom to scream this out. "I am not from the asylum," he said patiently, "I am a teacher and, if you will sit down calmly, I shall tell you about Hogwarts. Of course, if you would rather not come to the school, nobody will force you –"

"I'd like to see them try," Tom sneered, not bothering to think about these words before he said them.

"Hogwarts," Dumbledore continued as though he had not heard Tom speak at all, "is a school for people with special abilities - "

"I'm not mad!" Tom half screamed.

"I know that you are not mad. Hogwarts is not a school for mad people. It is a school of magic."

Tom froze, the fury leaving him in drifts, making him light-headed and, if he was honest with himself, a little excited. "Magic?" He repeated in a whisper.

"That's right," Dumbledore said, his smile growing larger, watching the boy's reaction.

Tom tried to steady himself, as the color he had been hiding rose to his cheeks. For once in a long time, he felt joy. "If it's magic, what can I do?"

Dumbledore pondered this for a moment, then answered with, "Well, what is it that you can do?"

"All sorts," Tom breathed. A flush of excitement was rising up his neck into his hollow cheeks; he looked as though he had a very high fever. "I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want without training them. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me." His voice slowed slightly, lost in thought now. "I can make them hurt if I want to . . . "

Tom's legs were trembling. He stumbled forward, and threw himself back down onto the bed. He clasped his hands together and bowed his head, almost as if he was in prayer. "I knew I was different." His fingers were quivering in a manner most unlike him. "Always, I knew there was something."

"Well, you were quite right," Dumbledore said, placing a hand on Tom's shoulder. He was not smiling any longer, but rather watching Tom. "You are a wizard."

"Are you a wizard, too?" Tom asked, curiously.

"Yes."

"Prove it. Tell the truth." The ringing force had come once again to rest with Tom's words. They did not startle him so much anymore, though. The professor raised his eyebrows, his eyes never leaving Tom's. Suddenly, without any explanation whatsoever, the large, mahogany wardrobe that rested in Tom's bedroom burst into flames. He let out a yelp, and leaped off of the bed. His things!

A moment passed, and the flames died down. Tom flung open the wardrobe's doors to find that none of his items had been damaged. He let out an involuntary sigh of relief. As he turned back to look at Dumbledore, Tom noticed that he carried something that looked rather like a stick – a wand. "When do I get one of those?" He asked wonderingly.

"All in good time," Dumbledore said, smiling faintly. "But as for this moment, I think there is something trying to get out of your wardrobe." Sure enough, a faint rattling could be heard from the inside of Tom's wardrobe. He had a good idea as to what was making the noise. "Bring it to me."

Reluctantly, Tom took his box of treasures out of the wardrobe, and brought them to the Professor. "Is there anything in that box that you ought not to have?" Dumbledore raised his eyebrow.

"I suppose, sir." Tom said, suddenly looking very interested by the tops of his shoes. Dumbledore opened the box, displaying all of Tom's possessions.

"Thievery is not tolerated at Hogwarts, do you understand? You shall return these items to their owners with an apology. I shall know whether or not it has been done." Tom nodded slowly, though he had no intention of doing such a thing. Besides, how would Dumbledore know whether or not he kept the items or not? He wouldn't, Tom decided. It was just a means of trying to scare him.

"At Hogwarts," Dumbledore went on, "we teach you not only how to use magic, but to control it. You have – inadvertently, I'm sure - been using your powers in a way that is neither taught, nor tolerated at our school. You are not the first, nor will you be the last, to allow your magic to run away with you. But you should know that Hogwarts can expel students, and the Ministry of Magic – yes, there is a ministry – will punish lawbreakers still more severely. All new wizards must accept that, in entering our world, they will abide by our laws."

"Yes, sir," Tom said in an expressionless voice. "Sir," he said suddenly, looking up, "I can speak to snakes. I found out when we've been to the country on trips – they find me, whisper things. Is that normal for a wizard?"

For a moment, Dumbledore's expression darkened slightly. "It is unusual," he said after a pause, "but not unheard of." The Professor stood, and brought himself to the door. "Good-bye for now, Tom. I shall be back in a month or so to accompany you to pick up your supplies. I'll see you at Hogwarts, too, I presume?"

"Absolutely."


	7. Tom Riddle: Wizard

As the weeks ticked by, Elizabeth noticed a dramatic change in Tom's behavior. He was decidedly more cheerful – if that was possible – and seemed to want to talk to her more than he had in a long while. Not that she was complaining, but Elizabeth, despite herself, was worried for Tom. He was never like this, and she suspected something.

Aside from that, Tom had gotten rid of his "treasures" that he had stolen from the other orphans, and had apologized to the former owners of each one. He did this reluctantly, however, and turned a bright pink color as he spoke to his fellow orphans. Naturally, each recipient was thrilled to have their things back, and not one of them had bothered to speak to Tom since. This, as Elizabeth saw, was neither a good thing, nor bad. Tom usually was either ignored, or bullied, and while she did not wish to be ignored, Tom seemed not to mind it. In fact, he seemed rather to enjoy it. It was almost as if he had grown so accustomed to being invisible, that it was simply his natural state.

But, Elizabeth still saw him. (In fact, it was becoming quite hard for her to look at anything but him nowadays.) Their conversations grew lengthier, more detailed, and more honest, and Elizabeth felt herself slowly growing to like Tom more and more. The pangs of guilt she had originally felt when she first spoke to him were dissolved and forgotten. It seemed as though the two had something growing in between them . . .

~0~

Elizabeth awoke to screaming. At first, she had suspected the worst. Was the orphanage on fire? Had someone been hurt? But, these assumptions were proved to be wrong, as she looked out of her window that she, apparently, had left open the night before. And it hadn't been actual screaming that she had heard, but rather children's screams of laughter.

With a sigh of bliss relief, Elizabeth pulled on her clothes – a white jumper with a plaid skirt and a black sash tied around the middle – and charged downstairs, her head held high. What met her eyes was nothing new. The mess hall was half empty; most of the orphans were outside already, and the two mahogany tables – labeled boys' and girls' by habit – and the same pile of dishes and meals in the corner for self-serving.

The only different thing she saw was a man wearing scarlet robes, and a long, ginger beard standing by the door, a shorter boy – but not by much – with wavy hair, darker than the dead of night standing beside him. The two were talking as if they were old friends. As Elizabeth neared Tom and the stranger, she overheard some of their conversation, and it was odder than odd.

"This is the list of all the schoolbooks you'll need, Tom," the man said, handing Tom a piece of yellowed parchment that looked ancient. Elizabeth seated herself at the girls' table, in a spot where she was in earshot, but where she would still look inconspicuous.

"But, Professor, I haven't got any money." Tom said, stuffing the parchment in the back pocket of his trousers. 'Professor'?

The man smiled. "That can be remedied. In Diagon Alley – that is where you will pick up your things – there is a wizarding bank: Gringotts, where you can withdraw from the Hogwarts fund for Muggle-born students."

Tom gave a slight nod, pondering this. "Right . . . And how do I get to Diagon Alley?"

The 'Professor' character took a look around, then pulled Tom close and whispered the directions to him, using such a tone that Elizabeth could not hear. She did not understand what on earth was going on. What was 'Diagon Alley'? What was a 'Muggle'? "Do you understand?" The professor said in a normal tone, pulling away from Tom, who looked slightly uncomfortable, as he had just had half a beard inside his ear.

"I do, sir. I don't think I require your accompaniment, though, Professor. I take walks around London by myself often, and . . ." His voice trailed away as he faced the man.

The Professor wore a look of worry upon his face. "Are you quite sure, Tom? I don't want you getting lost . . ." Elizabeth decided that though she did not understand half of what the strange, ginger-haired man said, she liked him. He was fatherly, in her opinion, and sounded easy to talk to.

"I won't. I promise, Professor." Tom said, glancing in Elizabeth's direction, and narrowing his eyes a tad, giving her a questioning look.

The Professor glanced around, and backed up a few paces. "If you're sure, Tom . . . . I'll see you in September, then." He then disappeared through the orphanage door, at such a pace that made him look as though he was in a great hurry.

For a moment, Tom simply stared out after the Professor, and Elizabeth watched him do so. It was if the world had been paused; a veil of silence had crept over the orphanage, quietly bidding the strange man farewell. Then, everything began to speed up again, as the orphanage caught up in the moment. Tom darted over to Elizabeth, grabbing her hand tightly, and half dragged her over to the boys' table, where the two normally sat for meals.

"What did you hear?" He nearly growled as the two sat down. It took a moment for Elizabeth to register being addressed like this. For the past few weeks, she had grown accustomed to being spoken to as a normal person, and, needless to say, it put her off guard.

"H-hardly anything!" She said, stuttering despite herself. This didn't seem to satisfy Tom, so she elaborated. "Just something about 'Diagon Alley', and 'Gringotts', and something about 'Muggles', but I didn't . . ."

Tom was massaging his temples furiously. "Elizabeth, don't you realize what you've done? You're going to get the both of us in trouble!"

Elizabeth's brow furrowed. Nothing was making sense this morning. "Trouble? How? What did you do? Riddle, is there something you're not telling me?"

The dark-haired boy beside her, closed his ebony eyes, and gave a little huff of a sigh. "There are a lot of things I'm not telling you." His eyes opened once more, and they latched themselves onto Elizabeth's. "I've got somewhere to go today. Would you mind coming with?"

For a moment, Elizabeth just stared into Tom's eyes dumbly, forgetting for a moment, that he expected a response back. The moment passed, and she opened her mouth to speak her answer, but what came out was completely different than that. What Elizabeth did say was:

"Explain."

Tom gave another sigh, and nodded his head yes. He opened his mouth once more, and began to speak the words that would change everything.

~0~

A wizard.

Tom Marvolo Riddle was a wizard.

Somehow, Elizabeth had known that he was different – special. But this was far beyond anything she had expected. And there were hundreds of boys and girls just like Tom, with magic flowing through their veins. She did not react at first. How could she? Then the emotions began flooding to her. Naturally, Elizabeth was still confused. There were so many layers to this. She was a little scared as well. Tom had always danced to his own tune, but as it turned out, he wasn't dancing at all, or to any tune whatsoever! And, finally, most strange of all, Elizabeth found that she was just a little bit jealous. Tom was going away to a magical boarding school, while she got to stay at Wool's, repeating the same routine she had practiced for the past eleven years. None of it seemed even remotely fair.

But she found herself pushing all her emotions aside, and instead, she was walking alongside Tom – a wizard – in the crowded streets of London, looking for 'Diagon Alley', making small conversation.

"I think you might be like me, too. A witch?" Tom said. Elizabeth turned to him, noticing he walked with a slight spring in his step.

"Really? But that 'Professor' fellow didn't come to me; only you," she said, stuffing her right hand in her pocket, deep in though.

Tom took a moment to consider this. "But you can see me do magic, can't you?" Elizabeth nodded at this. She certainly could. "The others can't. There must be a reason for that! You've got to be like me, right?"

"I'm not sure. I think that's just qualified as wishful thinking." She gave a sigh, as the two of them continued on in silence. Tom seemed to know exactly where he was going, as if he had been this way a hundred times before. They turned down an alleyway, went left at an intersection, and ended up in a dingy-looking little shop built in a corner, a chalkboard sign hanging from its eaves.

"What do you see, Elizabeth?" Tom said, staring intently at the sign. "Does the sign say anything?"

Caught slightly off guard by this question, Elizabeth turned her attention the chalkboard sign. "Nothing," she said almost at once. "There's nothing – wait." The longer she stared at the sign, the clearer a drawn image became to her – a cauldron being stirred, the words "The Leaky Cauldron" drawn beneath it in an almost medieval script. "Something's written on it - The Leaky Cauldron. Is this the place you were looking for?"

As she turned to face her companion once again, Elizabeth noticed that Tom wore a face equivalent to that of a young child on his first Christmas. "There's no other explanation!" He said, a blazing look entering his face.

"Explanation for what? I don't understand - "

"Muggles can't see the Leaky Cauldron!" Tom cried. "You must be a witch! You have to be!" Elizabeth half wanted to roll her eyes, and hug him at the same time. She started to protest, but her voice quickly fell silent, so as not to diminish Tom's spirit. "You don't believe me?" Tom said quietly at last. Again, Elizabeth said nothing. Of course she did not believe him. It made no sense.

"Well," he said, losing himself in thought to a point, "there's obviously one way to find out the truth." Tom gestured to the door. "After you."

For a moment, Elizabeth could do nothing. Her legs were frozen to her spot. What would be behind the door? Would everyone be like Tom? What if she couldn't see anything? Her mind throbbed with questions. Suddenly, she felt her legs move out from underneath her, and Elizabeth had grasped the doorknob. Slowly, holding her breath, she turned it.

What met her eyes made her almost want to cry from relief. It was musty and dank inside the Leaky Cauldron, she noticed right off the bat as she stepped inside. The cool, fresh air of the outside was almost buried in fumes. It was a pub, she noticed secondly, as Elizabeth glanced about the room. Maybe thirty to forty witches and wizards were crammed inside, each drinking from their individual glasses, chatting quietly. For some reason, Elizabeth had expected heads to turn when she and Tom entered the room, but no one seemed to have noticed their presence.

"We're looking for the barman," Tom muttered under his breath, grabbing her elbow lightly, making Elizabeth jump just a little. She had almost forgotten she had been accompanied. The two slowly made their way through the crowd of witches and wizards, to the counter, taking extra care not to tread upon anyone's robes. This was rather difficult, as everyone seemed to have robes too long for them, that reached the floor with ease.

"Tom!" Tom said briskly, placing an arm upon the counter, and letting go of Elizabeth's. "Tom!"

A middle-aged man appeared from beneath the counter, wearing a torn apron and a smile, consisting of several yellowing teeth. "'Ello! 'Ogwars, m' I righ'?" The orphanage Tom nodded. "Righ'. Wha' you'll need ter do is ter 'ead roun' ter the back o' the pub to the door righ' there." He pointed to a small, worn door that looked as if it had been there for many, many, many years. "You'll come ter a wall that you'll need ter touch to enter Diagon Alley. Understan'?" The pair nodded. "Good. If you run 'nto any trouble, just lemme know." And, just like that, the barman Tom had disappeared beneath the counter once more.

The orphan Tom grabbed Elizabeth's wrist protectively, and led her around the mass of witches and wizards that lay before them, to the door, which they exited through. Elizabeth smiled as the fresh air of the outside met her sinuses again. She had been feeling a little light-headed.

She made an attempt to break Tom's grasp, but he held onto her tightly still. "You can't do magic, though." Elizabeth made no attempts to defy this, and Tom extended his free hand to touch the brick wall that stood before them. In an instant, the bricks that made it up split apart, almost as if being unfolded, and a group of old, quaint-looking shops came into view. The seemed to cave in as the grew taller, almost as if forming a kind of bridge.

Diagon Alley was packed with hundreds of witches and wizards, each one wearing the same kind of long robes that the people inside the Leaky Cauldron had worn. Tom did not let go of Elizabeth's wrist, and she understood why. One could lose themselves to be trampled effortlessly.

With his free hand, Tom reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out the piece of parchment that the red-clad Professor had given him earlier. His mouth moved slightly, miniscule whispers emerging from it as he read the paper once more. "Perhaps we ought to start with my robes," Tom said at last, putting the paper away. "We're looking for a 'Madam Malkin's'." Elizabeth's eyes darted from one shop to the next. She saw a 'Flourish and Blott's' and a 'Quality Quidditch Supplies', but no 'Madam' or 'Malkin's' of any kind. The cogs in her mind were whirring as she wondered as to what on earth 'Quidditch' was.

"Here!" Tom cried, yanking her past a family of worried looking wizards and into a darkened, nearly empty shop that contained a few wardrobes, and a counter, behind which a round, vertically-challenged witch stood, scowling at nothing in particular.

"Er . . . hello," Elizabeth said, attempting to break the unsettling silence that settled in the shop.

The witch said nothing back, as if she had not heard anything. Instead, she turned to Tom. "Hogwarts, am I right?" She asked slowly and clearly, as if she was speaking to a small child.

Tom nodded. "But just me. She's just here for . . ." he gestured to Elizabeth, but said nothing more, asking himself why, in fact, had he bothered to invite her.

The witch looked mollified. "She's not a Muggle?" She moved out from behind the counter, taking a measuring device, a notepad, and her wand, which she raised rather protectively, with her. "Is she a relative of yours?"

Tom narrowed his eyes, looking directly into the witch's emerald ones with a distinct ferocity that Elizabeth had not seen from him for a while. "A friend," was all he said. The witch seemed content not to prod anymore, and held up the measuring stick to Tom's shoulders, jotting something down in her notebook. Elizabeth backed away slightly, watching the witch in her element.

She poked and prodded all over his body, sticking her measuring tool every which way, continuously scribbling into her notepad. After she had done this, the witch gave her wand a casual flick, and out from the several wardrobes in the room came rows of fabric. These were laid out, and the witch made a sort of revolving motion, and the fabric stitched itself together, bit by bit.

Elizabeth was in awe, and could hardly pick her jaw up off of the floor. If the witch had noticed the young girl's gawking, she gave no sign of it. "Seven Galleons," the witch murmured absentmindedly, sticking her wand away in the folds of her robes, and lifting up the finished product for Tom to inspect. The stitching was flawless, as far as Elizabeth could tell. The robes were quite long, but not nearly as lengthy as some of the wizard's robes that she had seen today.

"Right." Tom nodded, taking the robes, and folding them up into a neat little bundle. "I'll be withdrawing from the Hogwarts fund for Muggle-borns." A thought crossed Elizabeth's mind, moving almost as quickly as a racing horse. She knew very little about his background, his family. Were his parents Muggles?

The witch gave a small glimmer of a smile. "I guessed as much." Her eyes enveloped Tom warmly, studying him intently. "You remind me of someone." The witch's eyes met Tom's once more, her brow furrowed deep in thought. She was obviously attempting to extract a deeply buried memory from the depths of her mind. "A witch . . . From several years ago . . ." She was no longer on earth, but whisked somewhere deeper and brighter – her past.

"Thank you," Tom whispered to the witch. He grasped Elizabeth's hand, his thumb caressing her slightly. She assumed that this was simply an involuntary movement. Tom led her out of the dark shop, and Elizabeth winced as her eyes came in contact with the sun once again. "Let's go. We've places to visit yet."

And, just like that, Elizabeth was whisked back into the flurry of witches and wizards, feeling small, out of place, but comfortably numb.


	8. A Solemn Goodbye

The sun was sinking lower and lower in the sky as Elizabeth Warren and Tom Riddle sat at a table for two at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor chatting amongst themselves, all the items purchased from his ancient piece of parchment, along with a dark-colored screech owl named Crusoe, who was making a great deal of noise. No one seemed to want to sit anywhere near the duo, due to all of Crusoe's noise, but Elizabeth couldn't have cared less. Her feet ached like there was no tomorrow, but so did her stomach – filled with butterflies – as she sat talking with Tom.

He was obviously just as exhausted as she was; Elizabeth noticed dark rings that had formed beneath his already quite shadowed eyes. But he didn't seem to mind. He continued to jabber away, in a manner almost unlike him. For reasons unbeknownst to her, Elizabeth was pleased, soothed even, to see Tom happy.

Suddenly, a question came to her, a serious one. "When are you leaving?" As soon as the words left her lips, Elizabeth knew they had been out of place. Tom looked taken aback, almost as if he had forgotten why they were in Diagon Alley in the first place.

Then his eyes shrank back in his sockets slightly and said softly and wistfully, "In two day's time." And, just like that, Tom was gone. His mind had been shipped off elsewhere – to Hogwarts. Elizabeth could tell he was busy thinking, and didn't bother to tear him from his thoughts. Instead, she simply took small spoonfulls of her ice cream, saying nothing. It was chocolate flavored, and melted in her mouth interestingly.

She gave surrepitious looks at Tom from across the table, studying him. He ran a few fingers through his hair absentmindedly, and his eyes, though dark, seemed to be shining brightly. Elizabeth felt another pang of jealousy. All of her wanted to go to Hogwarts with Tom, though she knew it was impossible.

"We should get going," Tom's edged voice broke the silence that hung around their table. "Mrs. Cole will worry." He rolled his eyes, and set his ice cream on the table, picking up his robes, his wand, and a few of his textbooks. Elizabeth, trying to be helpful, scooped up the remainder of his books, and set Crusoe's cage atop them, her face barely peering over the top of the owl's cage. Crusoe seemed to hate this prospect, however, and gave a series of even louder screeches – aimed directly in Elizabeth's left ear. She winced.

"Maybe I'd better carry him," Tom offered, handing Elizabeth his robe in exchange for the owl. Crusoe shut up at once, much to the pleasure of some of the nearby witches and wizards who had been sending the pair dirty looks. Tom reached through the owl's cage, and stroked Crusoe's soft feathers with his index finger.

The corners of Elizabeth's mouth twisted upward slightly, and the pair exited Diagon Alley, the brilliant sun setting behind the tops of the buildings, the pair's steps in sync. Little did Elizabeth know that it would be the last time that she would ever enter that place.

~0~

Tom Riddle couldn't make himself fall asleep that evening. His belly was filled with his supper – pork – and his head had long since been resting on the downy pillow of his cot, but he couldn't get himself comfortable.

The minutes passed almost like seconds, and the moon and stars joined the sky. Crusoe let out a little whimper of a hoot, his glassy yellow eyes reaching the boy's window. Tom knew what the owl wanted. This time of night, the streets of London would be crawling with mice and rats – a feast for Crusoe. Giving the owl a look, Tom sat up and opened his window. The not quite cold breeze of London summer wafted its way into the room.

Tom threw his sheets aside, and made his way across the room to unlock the owl's cage. The door swung open slowly, and Crusoe hopped out of it. He spread his wings, seeming to take it all in. Tom climbed back onto his bed and watched as Crusoe made his way up to the windowsill, and gave the boy a look, as if to ask for permission. The corner of Tom's mouth turned upward slightly – not a smile, but close to it.

That had seemed to be all that Crusoe wanted, and the owl swooped out of the window, flying through the courtyard to the streets beyond. For a moment, Tom watched the owl's silhouette soaring through the night, and was comforted. In two days, he would be at Hogwarts. In two days, he would be home. Pulling his sheets over his head, Tom drifted away.

~0~

The next two days passed quickly for Elizabeth Warren. Mostly, she and Tom had talked about things. He had told her everything he knew about Hogwarts, and she had tried her hardest to remember it all: Owls were used for carrying mail, much like carrier pigeons, apparently. He would be sending her letters weekly. There were four houses at Hogwarts to be "sorted" into, whatever that meant; Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, and Slytherin. Tom wasn't sure what criteria each house demanded yet. He would come back for summer vacations.

She tried to spend as much time next to Tom as was possible. Deep down, Elizabeth was afraid that she might forget his face, or what he was like in the first place. Her mind was at work every time she saw him. She tried to study his face profile to the point where she could draw it, and the exact deep dark shade of his eyes.

But no matter how long she looked at him, no matter how much she tried to memorize about his personality, Tom's leaving the orphanage was inevitable. He was going to Hogwarts, and she would be stuck with only her bare walls and the stares of her fellow orphans to keep her company. She had known this all along, but it hadn't hit Elizabeth quite so hard as when Tom came downstairs for breakfast on the day of his leave, carrying a trunk, filled with his school things, and Crusoe's cage.

Elizabeth could hear some of the boys sitting nearest her jeering him, and she felt like slapping them each, one by one. But she couldn't get her body to do anything except stare at her friend. Tom looked elated as he seated himself next to her. Crusoe's screeching drowned out the noise of the boys at once.

"Good morning," Tom said, and spooned himself some porridge into a bowl.

"Hello," Elizabeth replied weakly, her eyes boring into Crusoe rather unnaturally. The owl looked quite displeased to be sitting next to the boys, who were now using peashooters to shoot wads of spitty paper into the owl's gorgeous feathers. Outraged, Elizabeth took Crusoe, and set him in her lap, picking out the pieces of paper and trying not to cringe.

"Two more hours . . ." Tom murmured. "I think you're the only person I'll even remotely miss." That didn't make Elizabeth feel much better.

"King's Cross. You're going yourself?" She asked, flicking the paper she had retrieved from the owl's feathers back at the boys. She smiled. It felt good.

Tom took the owl back, and set it beside him, looking slightly amused at the boy's reactions. They looked quite steamed. "I'd planned on it, but you probably could come with me. If you could get into Diagon Alley, you probably can get to Platform 9 ¾."

Elizabeth sniggered. "Platform 9 ¾? This whole thing is so . . . ridiculous."

Nodding, Tom spooned a mouthful of porridge into his mouth. "But if it means I can get away from them," he gestured to the boys, who had now turned to some of the members of the girls' table to amuse themselves, "I'll go."

~0~

King's Cross Station was several miles away, and nowhere near walking distance, so Mrs. Cole had to drive them. She owned an older model car, and it was very slow and bumpy compared to the much smoother rides of some of the cars out on the street. Tom's trunk was tied to the roof of the car, and the orphanage matron kept yelling at some of the other people on the street. Elizabeth felt part of her head throbbing from the noise.

Tom didn't speak to either of the girls in the car, and just stared out into the street wistfully. Elizabeth felt her heart lurch as she looked at him. In perhaps another half hour, he would be leaving her until next June. Minutes dragged by, and the three of them continued to sit in silence.

The car hobbled past houses and shops, leaving the outskirts of London, and entering to the heart. "Damn!" Mrs. Cole cried, the car lurching forward so that the children sitting in the backseat nearly fell over.

"Bloody hell," She muttered to herself. "You'd think people would know how to drive." Suddenly, Mrs. Cole cleared her throat and laughed weakly. She had forgotten for a moment that Tom and Elizabeth had been sitting behind her. The car pulled into a lot, and stopped.

"Should I walk you in?" Mrs. Cole asked seemingly nervous.

Tom opened his door, and shook his head at the orphanage matron. "I know where it is. See you this summer, Mrs. Cole?" She nodded. Tom's eyes fell on Elizabeth's, and he grabbed her hand. "Come on," he mouthed, and she climbed out of the car after him.

Tom put his hands on the trunk, trying to persuade it to come off of the roof of Mrs. Cole's car. It fell to the ground with a very distinct thud. Elizabeth grabbed one end, and Tom the other as the two entered into King's Cross Station.

The roof of King's Cross was high – maybe fifty feet up off the ground, Elizabeth guessed. A walkway split the station into two halves, and on either sides of it, large steam engines loomed, puffing up steam proudly. Each platform was labeled, but, try as she might, Elizabeth could not see any labeling for '9 ¾'.

"Do you see it, Riddle?" She said, careful to use the name that he preferred. "Is Platform 9 ¾ only seen by wizards?"

Tom's brow furrowed as he tried to read down the labels. "No . . . But if you could enter into Diagon Alley with me, something tells me you'd be able to enter onto Platform 9 3/4 , too." As his eyes scanned the walkway, he saw a few families with trunks similar to his own, which carried the Hogwarts emblem. "We should follow one of them." Tom pointed.

Elizabeth nodded as the two spotted a family not unlike those she had seen in Diagon Alley – the mother and father were clad in flowy robes that were receiving a few stares from the Muggles in the station, and a girl about her age wearing black robes stood with them. Tom must have seen the family, too, because he hastened towards them, nearly pulling Elizabeth over with him.

The three of them chatted amongst themselves, but since the walkway was too crowded with people having their own equally loud conversations, Elizabeth couldn't hear anything they were saying. (Not to mention the fact that Crusoe hated large crowds, and was screaming his wings off because of it.)

The family stopped at a post between platforms nine and ten, and, arm in arm, magically disappeared through the seemingly solid brick wall that had stood before them. Tom looked amazed. Curiously, he jabbed a finger at the wall, only to have it disappear to the other side.

"Fascinating . . ." he muttered. Crusoe gave a contented hoot. "Brace yourself!" Tom cried, suddenly running at the wall. Elizabeth's eyes grew wide. The wall was getting closer and closer, and as she continued to watch, Tom disappeared through it. Taking in a sigh, closing her eyes, and trying to fill her head with positivity, Elizabeth ran at the wall, and felt a rush of steam on her face.

She opened her eyes and beamed. A huge, scarlet train stood before her, an enormous group of robe-clad witches and wizards standing around it. The train read 'Hogwarts Express'. Elizabeth felt like laughing and crying all at once. Her eyes fell on Tom, who hadn't bothered to wait for her, and was running towards the train's door. He seemed to have forgotten that he had been accompanied.

"Riddle!" She screamed at the top of her lungs, trying to yell over the hustle and bustle of Platform 9 ¾. "Wait!"

Tom – thankfully – turned around, and set his trunk down on the ground. "The train leaves in three minutes, Lizzy!" The same strange feeling filled Elizabeth. It was so odd to have Tom call her by that name, but the more she thought about it, it suited him. "I have to go!"

Elizabeth tried to smile, even though she felt like she was dying inside. Her eyes were on Tom's, and the magnificent, dark color filled her mind. In one awkward motion, Elizabeth threw herself onto Tom, and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his left shoulder. She took deep breaths, letting the fresh smell of him fill her nostrils for a second. At first, Tom simply stood there, not doing anything, but after a few seconds, he wrapped his arms around her in return.

Though Elizabeth felt like crying, she only could smile when they broke apart ever so slowly. Tom gave her a nod, his face not his usual pale color, but darker pink. He then picked up his trunk and owl and boarded the train.

Elizabeth could see his face walking through the corridor of the train, looking for a seat, and watched as the train pulled away from the platform in a puff of steam.

The tears were coming to her eyes now.


	9. A New Home

Steam from the Hogwarts Express clouded Tom Riddle's vision as a medium-sized ginger haired girl waved at him from Platform 9 ¾ below him. It was all he could do to look away. He knew that he had said goodbye rather quickly, and that Elizabeth was a rather emotionally unstable girl, no matter what she told herself. But sometimes brief goodbyes were also the simplest.

Tom felt a lurch in his stomach as the train pulled forward, and he could see Elizabeth no more. She was gone. The orphanage was gone. All that lay ahead of him now was the blissful future he had at Hogwarts. Careful not to trip as the train picked up speed, he hobbled to the nearest compartment, where two seats faced each other, and seated himself next to the window. He folded his hands and sighed, watching children – some older than him, others looking the same age – walk past. One similarity he noticed between all of them was that none of them seemed to be alone.

Turning to the window, Tom gave another sigh, and let his thoughts encompass him. The train was pulling away from the station further and further, leaving the city of London for the countryside of England he had seen so many times before.

He was over the moon about leaving the orphans who had constantly prodded at the fact that he was different. The oddball. The weirdo. Tom didn't care to see them anymore. In fact, if he was honest with himself, he didn't care whether those orphans lived or died. If they were to die, if anything, Tom would be glad. But he wasn't thinking about them.

Tom was thinking about someone very different. Of Elizabeth. Of her laugh and smile. The way she didn't recoil when she saw him like so many others did. The way she seemed to cling onto every word he said, as if he were some kind of important official rather than an eleven-year-old boy.

But she was gone, and there was no denying that.

~0~

The dark cover of night had encompassed the misty air that Tom breathed in as he stepped off of the Hogwarts Express. It was chilly, yet comfortable to be in. Trees as tall as buildings towered overhead, still under the glittery lights of the stars overhead. The mist mixed with the train's steam to create a cloudlike substance that followed Tom with every step.

The jet black wizard robes that Tom wore flapped as he stepped forward. He followed a group of first years that clustered together, as if stuck with glue. He lagged behind, the fog blowing his billowing robes every which way, reminding him strangely of a bat. It was satisfying to watch his own robes flapping loosely. He liked the feeling of the fabric against his legs. It made him feel big and important.

The trees seemed to fade as the first years stopped in a clearing completely devoid of trees. The first years squealed excitedly as they trampled over one another to pick out a boat, several of which were lined up at the shore of a huge black lake. None of them had seemed to look up at the towers of a tall castle, looming in the distance, looking proud, that captured Tom's eye. Was this Hogwarts?

Curious, he followed his fellow first years, and climbed into a boat that seemed slightly smaller than the others. He did not care, though, as he picked up an oar and began to stroke the water slowly. A lantern attached to the boat cast a yellowish hue onto the black water, glassing over Tom's eyes so that, for a moment, he could not see the towers properly.

He heard gasps and squeals from the other children as they noticed the castle. Tom was glad that he had selected the boat that he had. He preferred being alone to being surrounded by others. As he continued to row through the dark water, Tom could have sworn that he saw a tentacle break from the depths of the lake to the surface, almost as a gesture of greeting. It made him feel strangely at home.

Some of the first children to set out on the water had reached the pier by the castle. A huge door loomed overhead, what looked like a very long set of stairs inside it. As Tom got closer to the castle, he felt more and more curiosity forming inside of him.

He, too, as the minutes passed, reached the pier and was standing on solid ground once more. Tom noticed that the trunks and pets of the first year students had already been brought there. As he passed, he stroked Crusoe the owl – who had been screeching like there was no tomorrow – under the beak, which shut him up at once.

Tom hurried up the stairs, his robes flapping ever still, and stopped behind the group of first years. They were now gathered around a short stubbish woman whose smile stretched from one side of her fat face clear to the other. She was chatting with them avidly. As Tom moved closer, he could hear all that she said.

"Now, now, I myself am a Ravenclaw, but the sorting hat seriously considered putting me in Hufflepuff," the woman said, her eyes shining.

A girl standing near her, with long, curly dark brown hair not unlike Tom's own, giggled disgustingly. "Oh, I'm so excited!" she gushed. Tom cringed.

The stubby woman cleared her throat rather loudly, and the first years all turned to her. "Right," she said in a booming voice. "My name is Professor Turpis, and I will be your teacher for Care of Magical Creatures, which, hopefully, you should all take in your third year."

"Professor," a tall boy with blond hair and green eyes shouted from towards the back end of the group, "where are all the older students?"

Turpis smiled her sickly smile again, and gestured to the large, wooden doors the children all stood in front of. "Behind these doors, in the Great Hall, where the Sorting Hat awaits. While you are here at Hogwarts, your house will be like your family. There are four said 'houses', each named after the four founders of Hogwarts itself: Godric Gryffindor, who favored those of bravery and spirit, Rowena Ravenclaw, who favored those who were clever and loved wisdom, Helga Hufflepuff, who favored those of a pure heart and diligence, and Salazar Slytherin, who favored those with determination and ambition." A hushed silence fell over the group of students, much to Tom's liking.

Professor Turpis clasped her hands together and continued in a majestic voice, as if she was telling a tale from long ago, filled with great battles and heroes. "In a moment, you will walk through these doors, and a hat will be placed upon your head – the Sorting Hat, and you will be sorted." Her voice trailed away, as she remembered her past.

Tom was pondering all she had said very carefully inside his head. After all that he had been told in the past few weeks about Hogwarts, however seemingly impossible, everything had turned out to be completely true. He knew that he had been expecting this for a long time, to leave the orphanage for something else, something better. And here he was. It hadn't hit him quite as hard as that exact moment.

Professor Turpis took in a deep breath. Tom did not dare to breathe. He could only stand, waiting. The Professor smiled again, and opened the doors with a loud creak. The next few moments seemed to blur incredibly together in a mass of colors and sounds.

The first years flooded into the Great Hall, chatting, giggling. Tom's eyes darted everywhere. Above him was a high ceiling, higher than any he had ever seen, but instead of an empty wall, he saw the night sky. On either side of him sat students wearing the same robes as him, each wearing different color ties. At the end of the walkway between the tables was another table, that seated a myriad of witches and wizards, each with grand robes of their own. For the first time in a while, he smiled. A real, genuine smile.

He looked up, and saw a tall wizard with a great, long beard smiling back at him from behind his half moon glasses. Professor Dumbledore! Tom's smile faded slightly, and he lifted up his hand in a gesture of greeting.

"Hello, there!" Another wizard called out. He was shorter than Dumbledore, but still had a long beard, whiter and straighter. "Good evening, first years, and welcome to Hogwarts! My name is Professor Dippet, and I am Hogwarts' headmaster. When I call your name, you will come up, " he gestured to an ancient-looking stool that looked as if sitting on it just a little would make it fall to pieces, "and be sorted." Professor Dippet pulled a piece of parchment from his pocket and peered at it. "Miss Samantha Abernathy?"

The curly-haired girl from before breathed and stepped up to the stool and sat down. Professor Dippet pulled out an old, mangled hat from his robes and placed it on top of Samantha's head. Instantly, causing Tom to jump, the hat gave a slight harrumph. "Abernathy . . . interesting. I see . . . good . . . " Tom watched, amazed. Was the hat reading her mind? "I know . . . RAVENCLAW!" Professor Dippet smiled yet again and removed the hat from Samantha's head as she bounded towards a table with witches and wizards wearing blue lined robes with blue ties.

Toning out just a bit, Tom stood, swaying on his feet ever so slightly. Since his name began with 'R', he would have to wait for a while before he was to be sorted. He breathed slow, deep, breaths, watching absentmindedly as 'Jacob Miller' be sorted into Gryffindor.

The older students sitting around him chatted and laughed without any cares in the world. For the first time since setting foot in the Hogwarts Express, Tom wondered about Elizabeth. How was she coping? He pushed the thought of her away quickly. What was with him?

"Tom Riddle?" Professor Dippet's voice rang through the air like a gunshot. Tom broke away from his thoughts and shoved through the crowd of students. He seated himself on the manky old stool quickly, but it did not topple over as he had expected.

He took in a breath through his mouth, and felt the heavy, dust-clad fabric of the sorting hat brush against his head. A deep voice belonging to a man whispered into his ear: "Hello, Tom."

"Hello," Tom whispered back, more than a little intrigued, not bothering to tell the hat that he hated that name. As his drifted around the great hall, it seemed that everything was moving slower. Had the hat stopped time?

"You're different from the other first years I've seen tonight." the hat whispered. "You're much more mature, a logical thinker, a diligent worker, a good mind, but there's something else . . . a thirst to be independent. A dire need to come out on top. Am I right?"

"Yes," Tom breathed. "Yes, that's right."

"Well, then," the hat said in his normal, booming voice, time speeding back up to its normal pace. "I know where you belong . . . SLYTHERIN!" In a blur, the sorting hat was taken from Tom's head, and he was pushed off of the rickety stool and towards a long table with students wearing green trimmed robes with green ties.

And, just like that, his fate was sealed.

~0~

The Slytherin common room wasn't far from the great hall, it turned out. One was to simply walk down a corridor, and down some stairs to the dungeons, where a large wooden door guarded the entrance. It was built underwater, apparently, Tom heard from the Slytherin prefect that showed the first years where to go. This made it so that the murky water from the lake shone through the windows, which were trimmed with emerald green silk curtains. In fact, almost everything in the Slytherin common room was emerald green. It was a comforting color, Tom felt, and a majestic one.

As he was buried underneath his emerald green sheets in the boys' dormitories, Tom let his mind drift away. He wondered what Mrs. Cole was doing, if Billy Stubbs had been giving her much trouble, smiling. He wondered about Eric Whalley; how was he? But, as Tom shut his eyes, becoming a slave to the night, a final thought crossed his mind like a shooting star leaping through the sky. He thought about Elizabeth, and wondered whether or not he would see her again soon.

Little did he know that in a small room at Wool's Orphanage, the very girl that kept popping up in his thoughts was wondering the same thing about him.


	10. Early Morning Revelations

Elizabeth sat in silence in the backseat of Mrs. Cole's car on the ride back to Wool's. Every now and then, she'd sniff, holding in the tears she hid behind her glassy eyes. She had not cried very much, or very long; she had felt so awkward in public. Though Elizabeth wouldn't cry anymore, all she felt was remorse. It was almost as if Tom was dead. Elizabeth knew that she would see her friend again eventually, but when?

Mrs. Cole had not seemed as though anything had happened to her. It was if Tom had never left. That was the way it was at the orphanage, too, Elizabeth found. None of the other children had even seemed to notice that he was gone. The air was slightly less dank than it usually was, and Elizabeth found that the atmosphere was lighter and easier to breathe in somehow. It was like a veil or a tarp had been placed over the orphanage, and now that Tom was gone it was lifted. But it didn't make her feel any better.

So, after supper, as to avoid some of the glances she was receiving from her fellow orphans, Elizabeth retreated upstairs to her room, and locked the door. She then flopped onto her bed and buried her face into her pillow, feeling so _stupid._ What was wrong with her? It was so unlike Elizabeth to spend this much emotion over anything. She had only been speaking to Tom for a few months, but it felt like an eternity. How unfair life was to take away someone she had grown so close to! It was like fate was reaching in close to her spirit and taking a good, hard yank at her.

Elizabeth tried to fill her head with dull things to numb her brain and take away the thought of her friend. She tried to dwell on the thought that school for the orphans at Wool's would soon be attending once more. She would be back in a classroom, surrounded by stupid girls and boys who would never understand her. Mrs. Cole would hire a new teacher as she did every year, and would sit in her office with a glass of gin at her fingertips, the responsibility of her orphans lifted off of her shoulders.

Despite Elizabeth's attempts, a few tears slid down her face and into her pillow beneath her. Her shoulders felt weak, like they could not carry the weight of her head anymore. Her arms and legs were sore, as if she had just run a mile. Exhausted from crying, Elizabeth closed her heavy eyes and fell into a slumber.

~0~

The first thing Tom felt as he awoke was the softness of his bedsheets. They were warm and fluffy, and tickled his nose just a little bit as he opened his eyes, his face pressing against them. Then the brilliant emerald green color of the Slytherin dorms met his gaze, and he nearly laughed from relief. Tom had been at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for two weeks now, but he still expected to wake up in an orphanage, to the hustle and bustle of breakfast.

After a moment of lounging in his bed, Tom threw off the sheets and stepped onto the hardwood floor of the boys' dormitories. A satisfyingly cold touch met his skin, sending tiny shivers up his spine, causing him almost to yelp. Fortunately, he gained some self-control, and managed to stay quiet. An early riser, Tom had taken to getting out of bed before his fellow Slytherin first years, whom he could hear snoring softly from throughout the room.

Pulling off his slippers and stripping off his pajamas for his Slytherin robes, Tom picked up his wand, which lay on a bedside table beside him, heading for the one place he enjoyed going on early mornings – the Hogwarts library.

Some of the Slytherins in his dorm were very particular about magical blood. Tom had seen them jinxing younger Muggle-born students – Mudbloods, his dormmates called them. The night before, the first year Slytherins had been having a heated conversation. Tom had five other boys in his dorm besides himself: Macnair, Crabbe, Williams, Goyle, and a boy named Malfoy. He did not know their first names, but he did not care to learn. As far as he was concerned, they wouldn't know his either. For the present, Tom was simply known as 'Riddle' to his peers.

His teachers were a different story. For the two short weeks Tom had attended Hogwarts, he had cast quite an impression on his teachers. He was quiet and studious, and many of the teachers grew fond of him, and would smile or wave when he would meet them in the hallways. Still, despite his loathing for the name 'Tom', his teachers used it, and quite frequently as well.

The hardwood floor creaked under Tom's feet as he moved towards the door. From back beside his bed, Crusoe the owl gave a sluggish hoot, beginning to stir. The owl would be the others' problem, though, Tom thought as he swept out of the Slytherin dorms.

The Hogwarts library was not far away from the dungeons, where Tom's dorm was located. All one had to do to get to the library was travel up a flight of stairs and walk down a hallway for a while. (Tom had studied a few maps of Hogwarts in the mornings before, and was beginning to get the hang of the castle. He could almost remember how to get everywhere, unlike some of his peers. It seemed that someone would show up late for classes because of getting lost every day.)

The door of the library gave a very loud creak – as always – as Tom opened it. To his left, an empty librarian's desk sat. Technically speaking, the library wasn't open until classes began, but Tom found it easier to concentrate when no one was around. To his right, mountains of books stood on shelves taller than him, their dusty pages and ancient, leathery covers beckoning him.

Today, Tom turned to the 'S' section, careful not to make any noise as he did. All the talk about 'Mudbloods' and 'Purebloods' and 'Blood-traitors' was making his mind wander. A book entitled 'Salazar Slytherin: A Biography' caught his eye.

As Tom pulled it out from the shelf it nested itself in, dust covered his hands. This book obviously hadn't been opened for a very, very long time. Seating himself in a maroon-colored lounge chair in the corner of the library, where he normally sat in the mornings, he began to read.

 _Salazar Slytherin is – and will continue to be – a great mystery to the Wizarding World. From his pureblood-mania to his mysterious 'Chamber of Secrets', this co-founder of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has baffled all wizardkind for centuries._

 _Slytherin was born sometime in the tenth century – a pureblood, meaning that he was not born to Muggles, but rather to a witch and wizard. Little is known about Slytherin's early life and childhood, but some historians believe that he was born in Eastern England, in Norfolk or Lincolnshire. It is also believed that his wand was made of snakewood, with core of Basilisk horn. This may not be accurate, but it makes sense from an ironic standpoint._

 _In 993 BC, Slytherin joined with three other witches and wizards – Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, and Rowena Ravenclaw – to start a place of learning for young witches and wizards. Up until that time, a wizards' parents taught him magic, which they had learned from their parents, and they from theirs. This 'place of learning' has evolved over time to become what is now known as Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

 _However, this harmony between Hogwarts' four founders did not last long. Slytherin and Gryffindor got into an argument over parentage, which caused Slytherin to leave the school. A firm believer of pureblood over muggle, Slytherin had the unique ability to speak to snakes._

Tom stopped reading, shocked, and slammed the book shut. He had something in common with one of Hogwarts' founders. How curious . . . He left his chair and opened a piece of parchment, and began to scribble the words that kept racing through his mind. It was high time he wrote to the girl at Wool's.

~0~

Elizabeth had felt as though she had gotten over Tom. She did not feel sad thinking about him anymore. In fact, she just felt joy thinking about him, mixed in with the excitement of knowing that she would see him again. Still, the sight of Crusoe sitting on her windowsill in the morning, a letter latched in his beak, made Elizabeth move faster than she had in a while. She had wondered if Tom might have forgotten about her.

Crusoe screeched impatiently as Elizabeth scrambled for her slippers and bathrobe. She then opened the window, and let the screech owl into her tiny room. This was a mistake, she realized almost instantly. Crusoe fled into her room, and screamed like his life depended on it. Elizabeth cringed, as she imagined her fellow orphans waking up to the noise that this owl was making.

"Come here!" She cried, even though she knew that the owl couldn't understand her. "Give me my letter!" The owl crashed into her dresser, and fell onto the ground. Elizabeth rushed beside him, making sure nothing was wrong with the bird. He looked a little frazzled, but nothing more. Gingerly, she took the letter from the owl's beak, who stood up almost at once, and screeched again, looking rather annoyed.

"Shut up, Crusoe!" She cried, climbing back onto her bed. "You've been traveling all night. Don't you want to rest?" Crusoe gave her a look, before swooping out of the window once more. He obviously did not. Elizabeth kept her window open, still, allowing the crisp September breeze to flow into her room.

Smiling slightly, she opened up the folds of the letter and looked upon Tom's writing. It was sort of messy, like he had been rushing, yet still readable.

 _Dear Elizabeth,_

 _I'm sorry that I haven't written anything to you yet. I've found myself too busy to do much but schoolwork, and listen to my dormmates complain. Hogwarts is similar to what I'd imagined. There are still some idiotic people, but you can't escape them, wherever you go, can you?_

 _Hogwarts has four houses names after its four founders, I've found out, and I've been sorted into a house called "Slytherin". Most Slytherins are obsessed with parentage, and think that people born from Muggles aren't worth anything. It's rather annoying to have to listen to my dormmates jabber on about 'Mudbloods' – that's what they call Muggle-borns, apparently – when doing homework._

 _The teachers here are a lot better than Mrs. Cole, or anyone at Wool's for that matter. You'd like them._

 _I do a lot of reading. Hogwarts has a library, and I visit there ever so often, to study wizardry, so I don't look like a fool in front of my dormmates. Apparently, the founder of Slytherin could speak to snakes. He was what they call a Parselmouth. I've been studying Slytherin, and I've found that I have plenty in common with him._

 _How's Billy Stubbs? How have the orphans been treating you? If anyone gives you any trouble, just stand your ground._

 _I hope to hear from you soon._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Riddle._

Elizabeth felt a warmth spread inside her, like butter over bread, making her stomach twist and turn as if it were dancing. As she watched Crusoe fly into the distance, Elizabeth felt a distinct longing to see her friend once more.


	11. Stolen Correspondence

Surprisingly, it took a bit of time for Elizabeth to compile a letter to send back to Tom. It was mostly because she had nothing to write about. Days at the orphanage were long and tiresome now that school was back in session. Elizabeth's mind worked at a faster rate than her peers, so classes seemed more drawn-out than ever. She was bored out of her skull. There was nothing to do, and there was no one to talk to except Martha, but she was usually off cleaning or cooking.

Classes were taken inside of the orphanage; it was a common occurrence for London orphanages. Mrs. Cole had not gotten very high marks when she was at school, however, and she hired a teacher – Mrs. Williams – to teach he orphans. Mrs. Williams was a terrible, old woman who scowled so much, Elizabeth was sure that the muscles in the woman's face had frozen solid in that expression.

Crusoe had not left the orphanage, but it was clear that he was itching to. Elizabeth had taken to leaving her window open so that the owl could fly freely about the orphanage grounds. Still, every day, without fail, she came back to her room after classes to find it a mess, littered with feathers and droppings, which she had to clean by herself.

And that was how Elizabeth awoke that almost wintry day in late November – to Crusoe's feathers. He had been sitting on her bed, and his feathers had shed in such a way that they stuck into Elizabeth's neck uncomfortably.

"Stupid bird," she had muttered as she sat up in bed, just as she remembered that Crusoe still being here was her fault entirely. The sooner she wrote back to Tom, the sooner she would be rid of the owl. "You're restless." Even though it was a half hour before she had to get up to get ready for school, Elizabeth pulled on her clothes and got out of her bed to begin her response to her wizard friend.

~0~

Tom awoke to a screeching from outside of the window behind his bed. Startled, he sat straight up in bed. He flinched as some of his dormmates stirred. Quickly, he opened the window and plucked a piece of paper from Crusoe's beak.

He hadn't seen his owl for so long, Tom had almost forgotten what Crusoe looked like. Still, as soon as he stared into his owl's golden eyes, Tom was reminded of Wool's immediately, and all those he left behind. He felt a twinge of anger at some of the boys, but his heart softened ever so slightly as he unfolded the paper that Crusoe held in his sharply curved beak, and the corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly as he unfolded it to see Elizabeth's handwriting.

 _Riddle,_

 _I'm sorry I haven't written to you sooner. The orphanage is boring nowadays. School has started back up again, and everyone is busy except for me. Eric Whalley keeps shooting me glares, and Billy Stubbs has taken off his bandages, but there are still a lot of scabs on his face. I know it's mean, but I find it strangely amusing._

 _Martha doesn't speak to me as much, so I've started talking to Crusoe. He's still the same old owl._

 _Hogwarts sounds like fun. Which house do you think I'd be sorted into? As for your dormmates, I'm sorry about them. Just grin and bear them, I suppose. Or you could always magic their mouths shut, right? As for your similarities with Slytherin, I don't quite know what to tell you._

 _I didn't know people could talk to snakes. Do you know if many people know how to do it? Try speaking in in front of your dormmates to find out._

 _Hogwarts has got a library; do you think you could send me a few books about the Wizarding World, for research? Also, do you know of anything to do at Wool's? I'm bored out of my skull._

 _Lots of Love,_

 _\- Elizabeth_

Tom stiffened a little as he folded up the piece of paper and set it down on the table that stood beside his bed. He smiled – a real, true smile – as he re-read her last words:

 _"Lots of Love"_

Truth be told, Elizabeth was the only good thing that had happened to him at Wool's Orphanage. All the rest of his memories of being at the orphanage were sneering faces, and the constant reminder that he had parents that he'd never known.

He couldn't deny that he thought on his parents a lot more than anything else. The more his dormmates talked, the more Tom was curious. Were his parents like him – wizards? Or were they 'Mudbloods'? If they were, how would his fellow Slytherins react?

Tom opened the trunk underneath his bed, stripping off his pajamas and replacing them with his Hogwarts robes. "Crusoe," he murmured just under his breath so that his dormmates wouldn't hear, and the owl perched itself on Tom's shoulder. Stuffing a bit of spare parchment, a quill, a dusty book from the library, and some ink into the pockets of his robes, Tom exited the room for the owlery.

Just in time, too, he found, listening to the snores of the boys dying down as they stirred.

Hogwarts was most beautiful, Tom found, in the morning, when none of the students roamed the halls, and he could take in its beauty without bumping into anyone, or being forced to listen to else anyone speak. Sometimes it was the most simple things that made him feel at peace.

The owlery was a short walk away, and Tom prayed that Crusoe wouldn't make any noise that alerted any of the teachers. Surprisingly, the owl stayed silent. Tom was surprised to find that the bird had fallen asleep. Well, naturally, he reasoned. Being nocturnal, owls sleep during the day, although he wasn't sure where he had learned that from.

Tom unlocked the door to the owlery and climbed up a few flights of stairs to the top of the tower where the owls were released. He set Crusoe gently down on a stone in the top room as he entered the top, and pulled out the parchment from his pocket and began writing.

 _Elizabeth,_

 _I was glad to hear from you. And I fully understand about the boredom. That was every day for me at Wool's. Give Billy my regards, and tell Eric that I will come back, and that if he does anything to you, he'll have me to answer to. If you're bored, there's a corner shop a short walk from Wool's. They give me lemonade when I ask. Just tell them that you're a friend of mine._

 _As far as Hogwarts houses go, I think you'd be either a Slytherin like me, or a Ravenclaw. Ravenclaws are witty and wise, while Slytherins are determined and strong. Frankly, you're both of those things._

 _I'm giving Crusoe a book to deliver with this letter. It's a history of Hogwarts and its founders. I hope you find it enlightening. Write back soon, so Crusoe won't have to stay with you as long. He should probably rest before making any more journeys._

 _\- Riddle_

Tom folded the parchment into a tiny square and tucked it into the front cover of the book he had lifted from the Hogwarts library. He gave Crusoe a nudge with the knuckle of his index finger, stroking the owl slightly. Crusoe's eyes popped open. Wearing a sort of apologetic expression, Tom held out the book, which the owl grasped in its claws reluctantly. It was clear that all Crusoe wanted to do was sleep.

Even so, the screech owl swooped out of the owlery with such grace and finesse on his way to deliver the package that Tom felt a surge of appreciation for his pet. He stayed in the owlery until he could see the sun in all its glory, fully arisen over the tips of the trees of the Forbidden Forest.

Tom sighed as he let himself out of the tower, his pace quickened slightly. He was probably a few minutes late for Transfiguration – which was his first subject. He should have thought ahead and brought his textbook, and should have hurried more writing his letter.

Continuing to chide himself, Tom rushed into the Slytherin common room, and pulled his Transfiguration textbook off his otherwise empty bedside table. He felt a distant reminder of something, almost as if he had misplaced one of his things, but he couldn't place his finger on it. The strange feeling fading away slightly in his stomach, Tom hurried out of his dorm, and sped down the empty hallways to his Transfiguration classroom.

He had been right. Tom was seven minutes late, according to the ticking watch of the Hufflepuff boy he seated himself next to. It had been the only empty seat in the room, but Tom saw why almost immediately. The boy breathed extremely loudly, and Tom couldn't hear himself think because of it. Fortunately, the Transfiguration teacher seemed to be late to class as well, and Tom was able to get his things out quickly so that he wouldn't look conspicuous if the teacher were to walk into the room.

Suddenly, a roar of laughter arose from one side of the classroom. Involuntarily, Tom's head spun around to face the direction of the laughter. The noise came from the corner opposite him, where a large group of Slytherin students sat. Tom recognized some of the boys from his dorm, along with some girl he had been sorted with, and some older students he didn't know.

For a moment, Tom thought about running over there and joining them (it would be better than where he was currently seated), but stopped when he saw what they were laughing at. A heavyset boy that Tom recognized as Macnair in the direct middle of the Slytherin bunch held up a piece of paper, reading the words written on it in a high, girlish voice:

 _"The orphanage is boring nowadays. School has started back up again, and everyone is busy except for me . . . "_ The boy's eyes skimmed over the rest of the words muttering them to himself quietly. _"Lots of love . . "_ Macnair smiled, a very prominent double chin becoming visible as he did. "'Lot's of love', eh?"

Tom could only feel one thing: rage. It was a single emotion creeping up from his toes to every ebony hair that grew on his head. His vision clouded with it, giving everything he saw a blurry tint. Tom could feel the blood rushing in his ears, making his head hurt, and causing his eyes to swim with anger.

"Where did you get that?" Tom asked quietly, the rage evident in his voice, which quivered slightly because of it.

Macnair smirked. "Where you left it, Riddle. Be careful of where you stash your things. This," he held up Elizabeth's letter, "wasn't exactly well-hidden. And, as they say, finders keepers." Giving Tom a smug look, he crushed the paper into a ball and tossed it down to him. "Who's Elizabeth? Your mudblood girlfriend?"

Tom caught it, staring intensely at the Slytherin emblem on Macnair's robes, specifically at the green snake that twisted its body around the 'S' of Slytherin. It was high time he tried something. He opened his mouth to speak, his eyes narrow and unforgiving.

 _"This is mine."_ Tom held up the paper ball. _"Any letters that you find by my bed are mine. You are not to speak to me of Elizabeth. You are not to speak to me at all."_ Feeling as though his point had come across, he stuffed the paper into his pocket.

"W-what are you playing about with?" Macnair asked, dumbfounded.

"What?" Tom asked, hope rising in his stomach like a hot air balloon. Had he really done it?

Macnair shook his head. "You just . . . spoke a different language. A hissing language, like a dragon . . . or a snake."

Tom coolly walked back to his seat, noticing that the Hufflepuff boy seated beside him was looking at him as if he were some kind of freak, like a dead man brought back to life. "Let's just, for your sake, agree that I am your superior. You are not to touch my letters. You are not to mention Elizabeth to me. Ever." he called out to Macnair, who looked pale and sweaty.

"You're mad, you are!" Macnair cried. Tom simply opened his Transfiguration textbook, not saying a word. He didn't intend to frighten his peers any further.

"Good morning, class," came the booming voice of Professor Albus Dumbledore as the teacher walked into the room. "So sorry for delaying you. Turn your textbooks to page one hundred-fifty four, and we can get class started." Macnair stayed silent and did what the Professor asked as calmly as he could, but Tom could see the worry and – dare he say – fear, growing ever growing in the boy's eyes.


	12. The Empty Diary

Eric Whalley scowled as he spooned a mouthful of a cabbage stew supper into his hungry mouth. He sat at the boy's table, next to Billy Stubbs, who was covered in scabs that made Eric wince inwardly when he looked at them. It had been nearly five months since the scabs had formed, and they never really had faded away. But Eric knew why.

It was all because of Tom – Tom Riddle. The orphan boy had always been different, the odd one out. He had been a loner at the orphanage for the most part, but he wasn't afraid to fight the other orphans. Strange things had happened. Once, on the orphanage playground, Tom had been sitting on the swings, and some of the boys had attempted to push him out of them, only to find themselves lying on the ground, flailing about, clutching at their necks – choking on nothing. Eric didn't quite have any proof for blaming Tom; it was developed mainly on his gut.

But Tom had left. No one had bothered to disclose where he had gone, but Eric didn't really care. If he was really honest with himself, Eric was just a tiny bit afraid of Tom Riddle, and what he had done to some of the orphans over the years. That was why he had been so hard on the boy – sort of as a way to push him away from him, to say that Eric was off-limits. Obviously, that hadn't worked. There was so much Eric didn't know about Tom Riddle.

All Eric knew was that he would send letters, though never delivered through any post system, and they would end up in the hands of an almost-twelve-year-old orphan girl with a freckled face, hazel eyes, and long, ginger hair that he knew as Elizabeth Warren. Eric didn't know Elizabeth personally. She was too quiet, and, most of the time, she had kept to herself. Even now, he saw, looking up from his supper, she sat at the girls' table, completely isolated from everyone else, eating her dish while staring off into space as if contemplating something important.

Somehow, though, she had befriended the boy that no one else dared to, and now whenever Eric looked at her, it felt as though he were looking at the boy who had ruined his life. He wasn't scared of Elizabeth, though. He hated her with all of his being. And all he was waiting for was a chance.

~0~

Tom had not visited the orphanage for Christmas like he said that he was going to. He wrote hastily to Elizabeth the week before Christmas break to tell her that he was pinned down with studies; semester exams were coming up, and he needed to study. He had explained that he would have to study during the entire break in order to get a good score on the tests. Tom wouldn't be able to spend much – or any – time with Elizabeth, and he said he wanted to wait until summertime, so he could spend the most time with her.

Elizabeth had been disappointed, but she also felt flattered that Tom cared this much about spending time with her. A strange thought came to her head: One year previously, she wouldn't have cared. In fact, she would have enjoyed if Tom had stayed as far away from the orphanage as he possibly could.

But now was a different story. She longed to see her friend again. Only a handful more months until summertime would come. Then, it would just be her, Tom, and a good time.

She had noticed something strange, though, during classes at the orphanage, and at meals. Eric Whalley and Billy Stubbs seemed to be paying her more attention. They would shoot her threatening glances, not unlike the ones she used to receive from Tom. Elizabeth understood why they might have a grudge, but why would they take it out on her?

Sighing, Elizabeth shut her notebook, and absentmindedly nibbled at the end of her pencil's eraser, clutching her legs to her stomach. The last thing she felt like doing was more schoolwork. An icy, February breeze rippled through the air, and crept through the cracks of her closed window, into Elizabeth skin. She shivered, her teeth chattering together.

Even though she wore a thick overcoat and tights, Elizabeth still felt cold. Her eyes drifted slightly to her bedside table, a drawer open, stuffed with all of her letter from Tom. She read them sometimes when she was bored, even though she had already read them several times before.

Elizabeth hadn't heard from Tom since Christmas, but she tried not to blame him for writing to her. After all, he probably did have a lot of studying to do. Elizabeth wondered what sort of things he was learning. Perhaps he could share some of them with her when he came back.

She leant over and reached into the drawer, pulling out a few of the letters, running her hands over them lovingly. Elizabeth did not read the words scribbled down on them to her, just the writing that told her that the letters were from Tom.

Another chill ran up her spine, and Elizabeth took a sharp intake of air into her lungs. She couldn't feel her hands. Placing the letters carefully in the empty drawer, Elizabeth left her room, and trudged down the stairs to the front room of the orphanage.

She was pleased to see that a fire had been lit, blazing brightly and beautifully, several of the other orphans had gathered around it, talking amongst themselves quietly. Some of them held mugs of hot chocolate, which they sipped, giving them chocolate mustaches on their upper lips. Martha was downstairs, talking with some of the girls.

Elizabeth smiled as she seated herself behind some of the others. Even though she sat in the back, the warmth of the fire seemed to consume her, wrapping her up kindly.

She stared into the flames, letting her eyes cross a little, causing her vision to blur. Elizabeth could hear Martha laughing at something one of the girls said. As her mind relaxed, it drifted, taking her far, far, away, to a memory from early December . . .

 _Elizabeth could only use one word to describe her feelings: Ecstatic._

 _Christmas was just around the corner, and she was certain that Tom would be back. Out of all the things she had heard from him about Hogwarts, that had stuck out the most: Christmas vacation could be taken off to spend time at home._

 _She had forgotten about it until she had received a letter from Tom a week previously:_ 'Christmas is coming soon, and my dormmates keep talking about when they'll leave for home.' _Elizabeth had written back almost immediately, and had planned to purchase him something on the weekend after, as she could leave the orphanage then._

 _Breakfast was quickly consumed on that Saturday morning. Elizabeth then pulled on a pair of thick, itchy, woolen socks, a large overcoat, and a woolen scarf for warmth, and headed out._

 _She had not been certain where exactly she was heading to, or what she would be getting Tom in the first place, but she tried to contemplate it as she trudged along the cobbled London street._

 _What exactly did she know about Tom?_

 _He liked being alone, and he didn't like the other orphans. He was quiet, intelligent, and opinionated. Elizabeth guessed that he wouldn't want a toy like some of the other orphans would. Besides, she didn't quite think Tom was immature enough to play with such things in the first place._

 _Suddenly, she stopped, an idea having hit her as she stared into the frosted-plated window in front of her – that of a bookshop. As Elizabeth peered inside, a hazy memory played inside her head. She had been upstairs in her room, and had seen Tom down below, writing something. It was a long shot, but she entered into the shop._

 _A counter stood at one edge of the room, books surrounding it. Every wall was packed with books. A few tables with chairs for sitting were placed neatly about the place, and in the far corner, a winding staircase led upwards, into a flat, Elizabeth guessed._

 _Behind the counter sat an old man, who wore thick glasses that kept falling down his face, and he had to keep pushing them back up. A stack of leather books of every color sat next to him. He held one in his hand, and he was scratching something into it with a gold pen._

 _Elizabeth walked closer curiously. He hadn't looked up at her, but he said, "Hello, miss."_

 _"Hello," she replied, leaning against the desk. "What are those?"_

 _The corner of the old man's mouth twitched into a half smile. "Personalized diaries for Christmas. Only two pence each."_

 _Elizabeth eyed the stack of books as she set her money on the counter. She reached for the black one, and set it before the old man. He threw the one in his hands to the ground, and looked up at Elizabeth. His eyes were strikingly blue._

 _"What should I write?"_

 _Elizabeth bit her lip. "Tom Marvolo Riddle," she stated slowly. The man quickly began his work. He turned the diary over in his hands, and began etching the word into the leather with the utmost care._

 _"So who's Tom?" the old man asked cheerily._

 _Elizabeth swallowed. "Just a friend." What an understatement. "I didn't know what else to get him."_

 _The old man nodded like he had heard that answer – or excuse, whichever you preferred – a great number of times. He capped the pen again, and handed the diary to Elizabeth to inspection. His work was flawless; it looked almost printed. Obviously, he had been doing this for a while._

 _"It'll need some time to dry; just wrap it in some cloth."_

 _Elizabeth put the diary inside of her overcoat and nodded. "Thank you," she said hurriedly, nodding to the old man._

 _He smiled, the wrinkles in his face vanishing as he did. A realization came to Elizabeth. Perhaps he had gained his wrinkles from smiling. She liked that idea, and hoped that her wrinkles would form from that instead._

 _"Merry Christmas, miss," he waved to her as she exited the shop, and began to hurry back to the orphanage._

 _Instead of wrapping it up in cloth like the shopkeeper had suggested, Elizabeth had just left the diary on Tom's bed with a note saying who it was from, even though that much was obvious._

 _And there it would stay until Christmas._

 _Or so Elizabeth had hoped._

Elizabeth sniffed as she drew herself out of the flashback, the fire coming back into focus. She was fully warm now, and uncomfortably so. Some of the orphans were staring at her. She realized that she had been crying a little.

Her face burning the same color as her hair, Elizabeth retreated upstairs to her room, and sank against the wall, her head throbbing, and her heart overflowing.

* * *

 _ **Hey guys! Thank you so much for all of the love from the previous chapter. :) I really appreciate it.**_

 _ **Feel free to leave a review, and follow the story if you haven't already.**_

 _ **Much love!**_


	13. A Broken Wrist and a Twisted Mind

Elizabeth stared fiercely at the pages of her Grammar textbook until the words on the pages blurred together and she had to look away from the pain in her eyes. Mrs. Williams, Wool's schoolteacher, was droning on and on about verb tense. It took all of Elizabeth's strength to stay awake. Her mind was wandering at the speed of sound.

She had been eagerly reading the book that Tom had sent her. The wizarding world was so much more interesting than the one she was in – the Muggle world. Why was life so unfair? The more she read about the Wizarding world, the more she wondered about her parents. Yes, she knew that they both died in a fire, but what were their names? Was there a chance that they had been like Tom – wizards – too?

Mrs. Cole had an office in the lower level of the orphanage, where she kept a file cabinet of information on all the orphans at Wool's. If only Elizabeth could get inside.

Her heart leapt up as Mrs. Williams – finally – released them for lunch. Elizabeth scrambled out of her seat to the back of the classroom, where the door to Wool's dining area was built into the wall. Apparently, some of her classmates had had the same idea, as they trampled over her. Specifically, Billy Stubbs, Elizabeth found as she glanced up to find his scab-clad body outside the door.

Elizabeth gave a sort of 'gak' noise as she tried to stand up, but something pinned her down. Her arm had been pulled to behind her back, almost touching her other arm. "Gerroff!" She said, struggling to pull her hand free.

With every yank she gave to pull her arm back, it would hurt even more. She decided to use words.

"Eric?" Elizabeth guessed. "Eric, let go, you moron." Her voice was sort of muffled, as she was speaking into the ground. The grip on her hand loosened just enough for Elizabeth to pull her arm back. She stood up and looked into Eric's face, her hazel eyes blazing.

"How did you know?" Eric said. He was surprised, but he tried to hide it in order to look menacing instead. This didn't work, and his facial expressions were twisted strangely.

Elizabeth scowled and took a step towards the door. "I'm not stupid."

"Really?" Eric's expressions faded into a scowl similar to the one Elizabeth wore. "You could have fooled me."

He lunged at her. Elizabeth had been tired from Mrs. William's class, so her senses had been slightly numbed. But she tried to put it aside as she dodged. He threw his fist at her, and she, thinking quickly, grabbed it, and attempted to push him away.

He gave a gasp of pain as his arm was jammed further into his sockets. He sank back against the wall, clutching at the arm, which was now hanging quite loosely at his side. Eric's eyes were watery.

Elizabeth instantly regretted what she had just done. She knelt down beside him, wincing. "Sorry, Eric," she said, reaching out for his arm, in an attempt to see if it had been dislocated.

He gave a sort of half growl, and grabbed her wrist. He twisted it. Hard.

Elizabeth gave a gasp of pain as she tried to grab her hand back. Her wrist had gone limp, the excruciating pain ebbing from it. Elizabeth's eyes stung as she fought back tears. "What's wrong with you?" She cried, yanking her hand back. She clutched it with her other hand in a sort of cradling motion.

Eric stood up, and backed away from her. "Nothing is wrong with _me_ , Elizabeth." He huffed past her, into the dining hall, careful to aim a kick at her shin as he did.

Elizabeth chewed on her lip, determined not to cry. She had to make a splint of some kind for her arm. It was obviously sprained, God forbid broken. She hurried out of the classroom, and scurried upstairs to her room. She threw open her wardrobe and took out her nice dress – her Easter dress. It was pale green with white tulle bordering it. She didn't care for it much; it was too fancy, and she never got much opportunity to use it.

Carefully, she ripped some of the tulle and began wrapping it gingerly around her wrist, mindful not to bend her hand. It didn't hurt quite as bad now, but the pain had not left her wrist fully.

Elizabeth seated herself on her bed and ran her finger gently over her injured wrist. _Nothing is wrong with me,_ Eric had said. But was that true?

Quietly, she opened one of the drawers of her bedside table and pulled from it some spare paper and a pen.

~0~

Tom had meant to be subtle in his letter to Elizabeth, telling her that he would not be able to come to Wool's for Christmas. Now, as he sat in his dorm, all aspects of his studies completed, Crusoe at his side, he wondered if he had made the right choice. As it had happened, studying had not taken nearly as long as he had intended, and the longer he was away from Elizabeth, the more he wanted to see her.

Well, sort of.

The boys in Tom's dorm had learned to respect him, to a point. Tom had researched 'Parseltongue', which he had discovered to be the proper name for his ability to speak with snakes. It was not a common gift, and he had practiced in his spare time, which had attracted the attention of his fellow Slytherins. Ergo, Tom was often a form of entertainment in the Slytherin common room.

He would speak in Parseltongue – most of the time, the completely random things that would come to his mind – and he was essentially a hero.

But Tom had learned what his dormmates associated with Parseltongue quite quickly. Now they expected him to be some sort of Pureblood-loving, Muggle-hating superhero. True, Tom was not partial to the Muggle-borns at Hogwarts. They seemed to be in such awe over every little spell that the professors would teach, that it made Tom cringe just a little. The only Muggle-borns that he truly hated, however, were the children at Wool's orphanage. They were all so . . . so . . . awful. Elizabeth deserved so much more than to spend her life with them, and Tom wanted nothing more than for her to be at Hogwarts with him, even if it was somewhat embarrassing to admit.

Still, the more his dormmates complained about Muggles and Squibs, the less Tom wanted to be associated with Elizabeth. It seemed strange, almost hypocritical. Just a little, Tom was embarrassed of her. He was embarrassed that he had ever become friends with her in the first place. Being embarrassed was natural, given the circumstance, but Tom, surprisingly enough, had never felt any regret towards his friendship with her.

Crusoe screamed from beside Tom impatiently. He had just returned from Wool's Orphanage, and Elizabeth's letter was held firmly in his beak. Tom had drifted away – he found himself doing that more and more lately – and the owl had restored him back to his normal state.

The boys in Tom's dorm were gone for the present, probably jinxing mudbloods in the Hogwarts corridors as they usually did in their spare time. Tom didn't care. The empty, emerald walls were much better company as far as he was concerned.

Gingerly, Tom took the paper from Crusoe's beak and unfolded it, stroking the owl's head with his free hand.

 _Riddle,_

 _It's been awhile. I don't think I've written you since February. Crusoe was being difficult, and I decided it was about time I responded._

 _Do you remember that place down the street from Wool's that you told me about, the one that serves you lemonade? I tried going there, even though it was freezing. While they might've given you free drinks, I had to pay my fair share._

 _I finished the book you sent me on Hogwarts and its founders, but Crusoe wouldn't take it back to you. I think it was too much for him. I'm sorry if that gets you in trouble._

 _Things at the orphanage are . . . different. It's Eric and Billy, and let's just say that I am writing you this letter with a sprained wrist, so excuse my messiness. I'll be alright, though. I'm plotting against them as I write this._

 _Are your dormmates being difficult anymore? If you don't mind, when you get to Wool's for the summer, could you possibly show me what Parseltongue sounds like? I've been reading about it._

 _Love from Wool's,_

 _Lizzy._

Tom hastily folded up the letter as a few of his dormmates walked into the room. He gave an involuntary sigh of distaste as he stuffed Elizabeth's letter into the pocket of his trousers. Tom opened his Herbology textbook back up, and pretended like he was studying. But he was thinking about something entirely different than wizard plants.

A broken wrist? Tom gritted his teeth angrily. How dare Eric and Billy do something! _He_ was the one they were made at, not Elizabeth. She had done nothing to them, not once.

"Yeah, I know," Crabbe scowled from the other side of the room. Tom knit his eyebrows together confusedly. "Herbology is annoying. Useless, even, if you ask me." Some of the other boys laughed at this.

Macnair gave a grunt of a laugh. "Useless like some others I could name." The boys all burst into laughter at this. Tom had a good idea as to what they were laughing at.

"Did you see his face, though, afterwards?" The boy named Malfoy grinned, remembering. "Looked like he'd been trampled."

"Who?" Tom wondered aloud, not looking up from his textbook, trying to appear nonchalant. It didn't work. No one bothered to answer him; all the other boys continued their useless chatter and laughing as if Tom did not exist.

He pulled out the letter once more, reading it over again, frowning as he attempted to block out his dormmates' voices. His hand brushed affectionately against Elizabeth's scrawled handwriting. He had noticed something as he re-read Elizabeth's letter: for the first time, she had signed off her letter with 'Lizzy'. Before this letter, it had always been 'Elizabeth', and on very rare occasions, 'Warren'.

Tom had taken a liking to that name ever since he had heard Martha, Wool's caretaker, use it. It seemed somewhat whimsical, and a little childish, but he still referred to her as 'Lizzy' in his thoughts. If Elizabeth knew, she would have found it strange, and maybe even a bit unnerving. The only times he had ever called her by that name, she had wrinkled her nose and acted sort of surprised.

Tom hadn't known her for very long, but he felt close enough to Elizabeth to think of her by that name. He wished he could be called by something other than 'Tom' or 'Riddle'. 'Tom' was too generic; lots of people had that name, while the name 'Riddle' felt too formal; it was what Eric Whalley and Billy Stubbs would call him.

A particularly loud grunt of laughter from Tom's dormmates pulled him away from his thoughts. Gritting his teeth, Tom folded the letter back up, sticking it in his pocket, and shut his Herbology textbook so loudly that he saw Macnair jump at the sound.

He pulled on his cloak and left the room swiftly, his robes billowing behind him.


End file.
